


Brave

by ceryss



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Stealing a wife, Vikings, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceryss/pseuds/ceryss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane, the fearsome and bloodthirsty Viking, arrives at the village of Winterfell with his crew with one purpose in mind - to steal a wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. War Horn

It was the war horn that woke her. The deep and loud sound rang out over and over again until it seemed to be its own heartbeat. Sansa flew out of bed and her feet hit the cold stone floor hard. Gasping, she yanked on boots and pulled a loose and easy to get on woolen dress over her night shift. Her fingers fumbled as she fussed with the laces. There wasn’t any time to do anything about her tangles of sleep-matted hair. The horn blared again and she let out a small whimper. She was almost out of her room when she remembered her brother Robb’s most recent gift to her. Reaching into a carved wooden box that sat atop her dresser, she drew out the small dagger. It’s handle was pure white bone and was shaped into that of wolf. Though the weapon still drew apprehension from her, Sansa slid it into its leather sheath and tucked in into the hidden pocket in her sleeve anyway. 

 

As she slammed the wooden door of her room, shouts were coming from downstairs. Her brother’s voice was the most prominent, along with the deep tone of her father. Looking down the hallway, her little sister, sword in hand, was in a similar state as herself: disheveled and in mismatched clothing, racing out of her room. “Arya!” Sansa called, running toward her. “What do we do?”

 

“Everyone’s in the solar,” the short and lithe girl answered. “They’re getting armed. I came back up for Needle.” She waved the sword their half-brother Jon had given her the same time Sansa had received her dagger. After the previous raid, their parents had decided to put propriety aside and make sure the girls knew how to defend themselves should the time come when it was necessary. Apparently, the time had come much sooner than expected. 

 

The horn blared again, seemingly louder than before.

 

Sansa turned her head toward the noise. “Is it--”

 

“Aye. Vikings.”

 

Another whimper escaped her lips but Arya didn’t comment. Together the sisters ran down the steps and toward the sounds of rough voices and steel being drawn. In the solar lit only by the dim light of the early morning and a torch, her father and Robb were hastily strapping on armor. Jon was there, and Theon too--a boy older than Robb whom her father had taken in when he was only six. While her brothers looked grim, Theon’s eyes were alight with anticipation. 

 

“We must get to the cove, that’s where they’re like to come in. And if we get atop the bluff we’ll have a height advantage,” Jon said.

 

Theon shook his head, a mad light in his blue eyes. “Wait for them to come to us? Where’s your sense of adventure? Mount the horses and ride to meet the bastards!”

 

Suddenly their mother Catelyn was there, little auburn haired Rickon clutching her skirts. Despite being pulled from her chambers, Sansa’s mother still managed to look the part of a proper lady. “Girls,” she called, calm even within the storm. “To the keep. We are going to the fort with the others. Quickly now, quickly.”

 

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief at having direction, but Arya stomped her foot and twisted out of Catelyn’s arms. “I want to _fight!_ I’m not going to sit with a bunch of wailing women!”

 

The boys laughed, but Father only shook his head with a stern expression. He had his imposing two-handed sword by his side and stood tall in his armor.“You will leave with your mother, Arya. Now. Go. We will come for you when they’re gone.” He looked to his wife and held her face gently. “Stay safe.”

 

Mouth set in a firm line, Catelyn replied, “And you as well.” She spent a moment appraising her son who looked almost a man in his iron. “Be brave Robb. But not foolish. I love you.” No parting words were spared on Jon or Theon, Sansa noted. She prayed for them anyway, trying to cast her wishes to any god listening.

 

Robb pushed his curly dark hair out of his eyes and nodded. With that, the girls were swept from the room and out of the warm house into the biting cold. Sansa blinked to adjust her eyes to the darkness and gasped at what she saw. Ships. Countless ships were being rowed at a furious speed toward their coast. The white sails billowed, hurrying the approach. When she squinted, she could make out dark figures standing on the deck. She could only look for a moment before she was being yanked by Arya after their mother. The horn was even louder outside as the three of them ran up the dirt road toward the fortress situated at the crest of their village. Around her, other women and children were making their way toward the keep as well. Noticeably less children than the last time they had ran toward their safe haven, Sansa couldn’t help but notice. Her beloved brother Bran was one such missing child.

 

The last time the Vikings landed, only a few moons ago, the village had been unprepared. Their way had been a way of relative peace, men only knowing the fighting arts for tourneys or hunts. Yet war came to their shores anyway. A cruel short battle ensued that left Sansa’s people with no livestock, burnt homes, stolen children and women, and slaughtered men. They were also left with a burning desire for vengeance. A desire that would be satisfied when the outlaws landed on their stony shore and found a different type of people than those they had last fought. A people with a rage.

When the horn abruptly stopped blaring, Sansa risked a glance behind her and saw the enemy ships scrape against the shore. The sound of the horn had been replaced by the war cry of men. Sansa shuddered as they finally reached the Ice Keep. The four of them were ushered inside along with a few other stragglers. Behind them, the stone door shut with a resounding bang. The Keep was the largest structure in the town, built with hardened black stone to shelter as many as a thousand men. Three sides faced land, and one was faced toward the sea. When it was built, many questioned its usefulness, but those who had feared days such as this persisted. It was a good thing they had. 

 

All around her were the curt orders of the few men in arms that remained with the women, filtering the villagers through the second wall and then into the main hall of the keep. It was cold and damp, but Sansa could see women starting a great fire in the center pit. Children were crying and clinging to their mothers as the women joined in a circle of prayer. Catelyn kissed both girls on the head. “Do not leave this keep. Keep fast to each other. Sansa, watch over your sister.” With that, she scooped up Rickon and made to join the others. 

 

Sansa attempted to follow her, but Arya grabbed at her wrist. “Come on, don’t you want to see?” Her grey eyes were pleading and she was tugging the direction of the steps, leading to the second level balcony which oversaw the town. 

 

Before she could make up her mind whether it was a good idea or not, Arya was slipping away from her, ducking underneath the arm of a busty woman carrying two squabbling children. “Arya!” Sansa yelled, running after her. “Mother said to stay together! _Arya!”_

 

Seeing no choice, Sansa followed her defiant sister and ascended the steep stairs. Stupid, stupid, reckless girl, Sansa thought angrily. Arya was always doing this--pretending to be a soldier, doing everything possible to prove that she would never be a lady. Normally Sansa was good at ignoring her sister’s dirty cheeks and generally unpleasant smell but it was at times like this, where her need to prove herself was downright _idiotic_ that she wished for a different sibling. Just when she thought she had lost her to the crowds of the milling soldiers that had stayed at the keep in case the Vikings made it so far, Sansa spied her dark-haired sister on her toes peering over the stone wall. The wind on the balcony was bitterly cold and she smelled the promise of snow in the air. 

 

Relief spread through Sansa’s core as she jogged over to where Arya was standing. “Mother told you not to leave me, Arya! Do you always have to be so--”

 

Her comment was lost to the wind as she gazed down on the scene unfolding in the village only a few hundred yards away. There was fire. Fire everywhere. It was a bright and deadly contrast to the dim early morning light around them. The screams of men were matched only by the screaming of dying horses. A dozen houses were already aflame and by the amount of torches being carried by the intruders, it seemed many more were on their way to ashes. “Oh gods,” Sansa murmured, her hand fluttering to cover her mouth. Down below, she heard the women begin to sing a hymn, but their song was overpowered by the song of steel outside. Arya was staring blankly at the carnage, clutching her sword to her side. 

 

“Why are they here?!” Arya screeched. “Didn’t they take enough last time? Don’t they no we have nothing left?” Sansa could only shake her head, horrified at the carnage. It was true, they had nothing left to give. The Vikings’ last visit had left the town starving, and with winter upon them, hope was bleak. What more could they take?

 

Sansa jumped when a hand laid heavily on her shoulder. A young soldier, only a few years older than herself leaned in toward the two of them. “They’re ‘ere for you.”

 

“Get away from her!” Arya shouted and pointed Needle in the boy’s face. He merely laughed and raised his hands in surrender. 

 

Sansa stepped back and asked, “What do you mean, for us?”

The boy smiled and picked up his spear. “I ‘eard that some plague got the Vikings’ women. They came ‘ome and all they see is dead bodies. Children dead too. Well, if the women are gone, then who’s gonna make the new little Vikings, eh? So they go from town to town, looking for the pretty ones.” With that he leered at Sansa and reached to touch her hair. “Don’t worry lass, I’ll protect you. And then maybe you and I could make a little Viking eh?”

 

This time Arya poked him with the blade hard enough to draw a prick of blood. Still, the boy only laughed and then he walked away, back to his post with the others. Sansa turned to Arya, worry stricken across her features. “Do you think he was telling the truth? They’ve come to steal wives?”

 

For a long time Arya said nothing and merely watched the battle continue to unfold in the village. “I don’t know. But it’s true enough that we have nothing else worth shit.”

 

Sansa found that for once she did not even have the strength to reprimand her for her language. All at once, a column of riders broke out of the village and began to ride hard for Ice Keep. “Look!” Sansa shouted, pointed toward the progression. “Are they ours? Can you see Robb or Father?”

 

The soldiers that had just been joking around them sprang to action, gripping spears and swords and shouting commands. Arya’s face blanched. “They wouldn’t be getting ready to fight if they were our men. Come on!” Her little sister pulled her away from the wall and around the side of the fort toward the backside, away from the battle. They ran against the tide of men running toward the front wall. Sansa could hear the sound of bows being strung and launched behind her -- and the sound of those arrows finding their targets. “We have to get out of here, they’ll break through soon enough. If we leave though the back, maybe we’ll have a shot of getting into the woods.”

 

Sansa merely nodded at her sister, allowing her to lead. “What about Mother? Rickon?” 

 

Arya just shook her head and continued running. A tremor began to reverberate throughout the fortress. Sansa was wondering what was causing it when men began to shout, “A ram! They’ve brought a ram! To the door!”

 

_A battering ram?_ What could they possibly have that was so important the Vikings would bother to bring a ram for? Could the soldier have been right? Women? Sansa felt tears pricking her eyes and refused to think of the thought. Surely they couldn’t be worth all this trouble. She knew one thing for certain, Winterfell village was her home, she would die before she allowed herself to be stolen by her brother’s murderers. 

 

“There has to be a way down...” Arya muttered to herself as they neared the back wall. Ahead was a short stone wall and over it, two stories down and then free land into the forest. But as far as Sansa could see, there was no way over it, and they certainly couldn’t go back downstairs and be stuck inside when the door broke open. Her palms began to sweat and the tears were flowing freely now, there was no escape.

 

Her sister reached the back wall and glanced over it for only a second before cursing and jumping back so far she landed on her back. Sansa’s eyes went wide but before she could ask what had happened, Arya screamed, “They’re coming over the back wall! They’re climbing the back wall! Get your bloody arses over hear! THEY’RE CLIMBING!”

 

The soldiers turned to respond, but it was too late. Sansa watched with terror as huge figures pulled themselves over the wall with a strangled battle cry. Arya was up already with sword in hand but Sansa saw how futile her battle was. These men were the largest she had ever seen and there were too many. Too, too many. 

 

One made to grab Arya but a raspy voice commanded, “Too young. Leave her. Mayhaps we’ll get her a few years from now!” That drew laughs from the men. Sansa turned to face the speaker and screamed. Though long black hair attempted to hide it, half of his face was ruined, a sickening red mess that only fire could leave. He towered over the already huge men and scars laced down his bulging arms. He was a monster. A Viking. _This is how I die_ , Sansa thought, petrified. She must have whimpered, for the monster turned toward her and locked his eyes with hers. Grey eyes, filled with hatred and bloodlust that made Sansa weak at the knees. He started toward her with a slight smirk and she forced herself to move.

 

“I am a Stark,” she told herself, backing away. “I am of the First Men. I am the blood of the wolf, I am not afraid.”

 

“Really, girl?” The man rasped with amusement. “You looked damned terrified to me. But no matter, I like a fighter.”

 

A sudden rage bubbled up inside Sansa like she had never known before. She would never be his. Never. With only this thought in mind, she turned on her heel and sprinted toward the edge of the wall that overlooked the sea. She could smell the salty air mixed with the smell of burning. _He will not have me_ , she swore to herself desperately. _I am a Stark of Winterfell_. His heavy footsteps rang out behind her on the stone.

 

“A wolf can’t fly, girl!” He shouted behind her. She leaped from the stone up onto the precarious edge of the fort. Below her, the sea rolled and thrashed angrily against the rocks. She couldn’t allow herself to think, or else she would be far too afraid. 

 

“Good thing I’m a bird,” she called. And then she leapt from the ledge and dove into the sea.

 

 

 


	2. Think Like Arya

**Sandor**

 

“Hound. She’s awake.” Sandor turned away from the bow of the ship at the sound of Bronn’s voice. Bronn stood casually, leaning against the railing while nursing a bottle of ale. Though the man was smaller and leaner than Sandor, he was one of the few aboard this ship who would actually look him in the eye. Though he’d never admit it, Sandor respected him because of that.

 

Bronn offered the bottle and Sandor took a swig from it, the bitter taste comforting. “How is she?” He asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

 

The man shrugged and ran a hand through his light brown hair. “Alive. Doesn’t look so much like a corpse anymore. But hey, that’s all you really need in a woman.” 

 

Sandor snorted. “Some men have higher standards than you.”

 

Bronn grinned, his gold tooth flashing. “Aye, and that’s why you ended up with beauty queen and I with queen of pigs.” This time Sandor laughed, and thought that he was not wrong in his assumption. Many of the men had claimed women from the most recent village and Bronn was one of them. Though while many sought after the young and fair, Bronn went for the first one he saw - large Lollys. “But,” he continued, “my Lollys is willing and warm, and yours is cold and ready to gorge out your eyes, so really, who is the victor?”

 

“True enough.” Sandor allowed. With that, he handed the bottle back to Bronn and made his way off the deck in search of the girl. 

 

As he opened the wooden cabin door to head under deck, Bronn yelled, “Try not to snarl at her too much! Girls are much better to bed when they like you!” With a scowl, Sandor shut the door behind him and shut out Bronn’s voice.

 

It truly had been a miracle she had lived at all, this she-wolf turned little bird. Of all the things he had expected her to do -- beg, cry, scream, stab him -- jumping off the fort was not one of them. For the first time in many, many moons, Sandor Clegane had been stunned. After she dove, as graceful as a swan, with her flaming hair fanning out behind her, he had almost expected her to be true to her word and fly off. But she had fallen. Her bitch of a sister’s cry had snapped him out of the shocked silence he had fallen into and pushed him into action.

 

He had left his men to search for her alone along the beach, wondering if there was any possible way she had missed the rocks below. Why he cared, he couldn’t say. There were bound to be other pretty girls in the village, but for some unknown reason he felt compelled to find this one. The brave little bird. Finally, after what seemed hours, though it must have only been minutes, a flame of red hair offset the grayness of the shoreline. Like a child, he ran to her, dropping onto his knees and resting his fingers against her neck to feel for a pulse. She was ghostly pale, the color being even more pronounced by the contrast of her hair. “Come on,” he murmured, “don’t make me kiss you, girl. You know you wouldn’t like that.”

 

But she hadn’t moved, and her pulse was faint, so Sandor gave her the mermaid’s kiss, drawing her lips apart and breathing life back into her. Once, twice, three times he pushed air into her and she finally responded. All at once, the girl thrust forward, water spurting from her lips with a heavy cough. She gasped and glared at him, eyes filled with confusion. 

 

Sandor smirked. “It’s like a fairy tale isn’t it? Your prince came to kiss you awake.” 

 

The girl tried to push herself up and promptly fainted. And so he left her in the care of the closest thing they had to a healer on the ship and hoped she would awaken once more. 

When Sandor reached her cabin, _his cabin_ truly, but for now hers, he stopped to listen at the door. Young Samwell, the unfortunately fat boy, seemed to be attempting to reassure her and they spoke in soft voices. 

 

“I don’t understand,” the girl croaked, her voice scratchy. “Why would he take me?”

 

Sam sighed and Sandor imagined him on the verge of tears. Sam had never been good with confrontations, especially with women. How that boy ever managed to end up on a Viking ship he would never understand. “It’ll go easier if you don’t try to resist, my lady. I know he comes across as...well...you know...but the Hound isn’t so bad. He never beats anybody, that’s more than I can say for most.”

The girl sniffled. “What’s your name?”

 

“I...I am uh...I am Sam. Just Sam.”

 

“Thank you, Sam. Thank you for taking care of me.”

 

Sandor could practically feel the boy blushing. “Of, of course my lady. It is only what is expected of me. Why else would they have someone like me here?” The boy laughed nervously and continued rambling. “You’ll be just fine now, yes, just fine, I’m sure.”

 

“Sam, where are we going?”

 

“Home my lady, town called Askrow. Don’t you worry, it’s a very nice sight. Green as far as the eye can see. You’ll grow fond of it, I’m sure. And there’s nowhere you’d be safer, that’s for sure.”

 

This conversation was becoming a tad too familiar for Sandor’s taste. It wasn’t the boy’s job to get friendly with her, he seethed. He threw open the door and gave the fat boy a glare that would’ve sent children screaming. Sam squeaked and practically ran from the room, leaving him alone with the girl. Her eyes went wide when she saw him. He shut the door behind him and took the seat previously occupied by Sam, across from the girl who was still lying in bed. Now that she had some color in her cheeks and wasn’t trying to jump from any ledges, Sandor took the time to appraise her. The girl’s red hair was wavy around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were as deeply blue as the ocean on a sunny day, and her lips seemed to be in a constant pout. She was all cream, from her cheeks down to her breasts peaking out from her dress.

If Sandor had had doubts about the trouble it had ca used him to retrieve her, they faded away now. She was utterly the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on, and she was his. 

Realizing he was scaring the girl by his silence, he cleared his throat and leaned back in the chair. “What’s your name?”

She kept her eyes firmly on her hands when she whispered, “Sansa.”

 

_Sansa_. “And how old are you, Sansa of House Stark, of the First Men, and blood of the wolf?”

 

This time she blushed, embarrassed by her previous addressing of herself. As the red spread across her cheeks and down her neck, Sandor felt his own rush of heat though it wasn’t centered on his face. _Stop acting a green boy_ , he chided himself angrily. _She’s not but a slip of a girl._

 

“I am seven and ten, sir.”

 

“Don’t call me sir. You’re aboard a Viking ship girl, your bloody courtesies won’t get you far.”

 

The little bird flinched as if he had hit her and clutched the sheets of the bed, _his bed_ , tighter around her. He knew if he wanted her to ever have any semblance toward affection for him he would need to be gentler, but right now the only thought he could entertain now was that she still hadn’t even glanced at him.

 

“Look at me.” He commanded. The girl refused to move and instead stared at her lap. He reached over and grabbed her chin, forcing her face toward his. “Go on. Where’s the brave little bird that tried to fly away?”

 

At that, she turned her gaze toward him. Her eyes were full of fear, and something else too, something close to malice. Though he tried not to, he couldn’t help but wonder what she thought of his face. “Do you hate me, girl?” He asked.

 

She stared for awhile longer before responding with a question of her own. “Why should I not?”

 

“I saved your life.”

 

“You burned my village and slaughtered my people.” She shot back, anger rising in her cheeks. 

 

He shook his head. “They were the ones that brought the fire. As you can tell,” he said, jabbing a finger toward his face, “I like to stay clear of fire. Are you trying to think of a way to kill me?”

Her brow furrowed. “How could I possibly harm you?”

 

He nodded. “Keep that thought in mind, little bird. You can’t. You can’t escape. And even if you did, there’s no home to go back to. Everyone left has cleared out and moved on to the next village, most like. With winter coming, a burned home and burned crops aren’t ideal.”

 

Tears began streaming down her cheeks and he felt an unexpected jolt of pain in his chest. She was crying because of him. He had made a hundred girls cry before, this one shouldn’t be any different. She tried to say something but instead she began to sob. Heavy wracking sobs filled the confines of the small cabin and Sandor was at a loss for what to do. _Give me a hundred swords any day over one crying woman,_ he thought. 

 

“Why?” She asked, glaring at him with all the strength she could muster. “Why are you so hateful?”

 

He answered with a truth. “You’ll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when I’m all that stands between you and the rest of my clan. You’ll be glad of it when another clan comes and attempts to drive us out. Most Viking women have exchanged hands half a dozen times. Lucky for you, I won’t let you go that easily. I’ll be your only cage, little bird.”

 

The girl returned her stare back to her lap and twisted the sheets of the bed nervously between her fingers. “I don’t even know your name.” She muttered.

 

“Call me Hound.”

 

She looked up, as if she were startled and shook her head. “I can’t call you that. It’s rude and...unladylike.”

 

Sandor laughed aloud at the crazy bird. He truly had managed to snag an odd one, hadn’t he? “You’re worried about being rude to me?” _Perhaps she thinks I’ll harm her, and so she must please me._ That was an angry thought and put him in a foul mood.Stupid little bird. Scowling, he continued, “I’m not going to hurt you, girl, so there’s no need to lie to please me. I hate liars.”

 

She looked taken aback at his sudden change in mood, but she wiped her eyes and continued to look him square in the face. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of the girl who leapt into the sea rather than be captured when she muttered, “I want you to hate me, _sir_. I can assure you, you’ll find so satisfaction from me, and I would rather die than _please you_.”

 

Oddly delighted that she had stood up for herself, Sandor’s mouth twitched into a half smile. She narrowed her eyes at that and turned back to her lap. “You can call me Sandor.” He stood and headed toward the door, stopping to look back one more time at the little bird perched upon her white pillows. “I’ll send someone back with food. You just rest your pretty head and dream up ways to kill me, little bird.”

 

* * *

 

**Sansa**

 

The hulking monster left with a soft close of the door and she was alone once more. Her hand immediately went to her wrist to check for the hardness of the dagger. She sighed with relief at the firm pressure of the knife. Sansa hadn’t dared let her hand wander before, for fear that someone would notice and take it away from her. Yet the wolf dagger remained - the only stroke of luck she’d had so far.

The sobbing resumed, and Sansa clutched her head in her hands. Robb, Jon, Theon, Father, Mother, Rickon Arya, Bran. All were likely dead, and yet she remained. How could the Gods be so cruel? What had she done to deserve this?

 

She allowed herself a few moments and attempted to control the tears streaming down her face. She pictured her mother brushing her hair with a soothing touch, but that only served to remind her that her mother would never brush her hair again and bring on a fresh wave of tears.

 

_Focus, Sansa. You’re alone, how many times will you get this chance?_

 

With that thought in mind, she turned attention toward the her cell. It was a fairly small room, though she supposed it was big for a ship. The bed took up almost half of the space, and she had a sickening feeling that was because it’s owner was abnormally large, and no one was as large as the Hound. . .or Sandor. She still wasn’t sure which she preferred. Monster seemed more suiting to her. The room contained a sturdy wooden chair and a large, dark cherry wood trunk across the room. Climbing out of the surprisingly comfortable bed, she made her way to investigate.

 

A shiver shook her as her bare feet touched the planked floor, and her stomach swirled as the ship rolled over a swell. _There was a reason I wasn’t born an Ironborn,_ she thought as another wave of nausea hit her. Yet Sansa forced herself toward the chest, determined to open it.

 

Falling to her knees, she tugged on the trunk, but to her dismay, it was locked. _There have to be weapons in here. What Viking doesn’t have a few spare axes? And why else would it be locked?_ After a quick check that the door was still closed, Sansa slid the dagger out of her pocket and positioned it at the trunk’s lock, attempting to wiggle it around. Arya had always been able to unlock her door with a kitchen a knife; surely this lock couldn’t be so different!

 

_Come on, open. Think like Arya, think like Arya._

 

With a cry, she smashed her palm into the back of the dagger, forcing it into the lock. There was a small click as the trunk opened -- Sansa had never heard a more satisfying sound. Sheathing her dagger, she peered inside the open trunk. A grin spread across her face at the contents.

 

Inside the opened trunk, nestled in a white velvet cloth was a collection of weapons, but to her dismay, they all seemed too large for her to be able to conceal. An axe the size of her arm glimmered at her, along with long blades that curved at the ends. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining that axe swung at her brothers. _Quickly Sansa, quickly. Find something of use._  

 

Her opportunity arrived when he fingers found a pocket sewn into the side of the crest. Reaching in, she felt the cool smooth surface of glass. Sansa pulled out the tiny glass bottles one by one, reading their labels as she went. Milk of poppy, no. A sleeping draught, no. There had to be something useful. . .she went through three more bottles without luck. 

 

Finally, she raised up a clear bottle to her face and couldn’t help but smile. Tears of Lys. She had never figured the Hound as one to poison, and perhaps she was right, considering the bottle was still sealed. Though the monster of a man probably preferred stabbing his enemies to death, as that was more _honorable,_ Sansa was more than happy with a quick poison. And there was so much! Only a few drops in an unnoticed drink were enough to end a life, and in this bottle were the opportunity for many lives to be extinguished. 

 

Slipping her prize into her pocket, Sansa closed the trunk and hurried back to the bed, pacing back and forth, unable to stop the smirk crossing her features. Arya would’ve been so proud. 

 

But what if he tried to.... touch her later? _They came for wives._ The thought was entirely terrifying, for surely he would break her, and it was a very real possibility. He would feel the dagger on her! And then what hope did she have? _I could slit his throat before he has a chance to lay hands on me._ No no, that must wait for when he’s asleep. She couldn’t fight him. So where to hide the weapon? 

 

She thought on this a moment, anxiety rising, when a flash of inspiration hit her. _The floorboards_. Carefully, she bent down and dug her fingers between two boards. With a few tugs, the board came up out of place. Smiling, Sansa tucked the small bottle in and with great reluctance, the dagger with it. _That knife was my only protection,_ she thought glumly. But it had to be done if she wished to keep it.

 

Yet she mustn't be hasty in her plan, no, that would get her killed. Closing her eyes, Sansa recalled a time when one of her mother’s old friends had visited Winterfell. Petyr Baelish was his name, and he had been undoubtedly the most clever man she had ever met. He was small, with sharp eyes and peppered hair, his green cloak clasped with a silver mockingbird. Over a game of cyvasse he advised her, “never show what move you’ll play next, dear.” When asked how he knew considering she hadn’t told him, Petyr grinned a curious smile and responded, “Your eyes. Your entire game is laid out in your eyes. Learn to distance your body from your mind.”

 

_Separate body and mind_ , she told herself, controlling the manic gleam in her eyes and instead drawing tears. _Crying means you’re weak. Who would expect a weak child like herself to be their murderer?_

 

_Courage like Arya._

 

_A mind like Petyr._

 

Sansa Stark would survive.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all of the kind comments and genuine love of the story. You guys rock my socks. Hope you enjoyed chapter 2!


	3. Weakness

Though she was half asleep, Sansa jerked awake when the door to her cell finally slammed open with a bang. She opened her eyes slightly, wanting to look but also wishing for the intruder to think her asleep. The room was almost pitch black, the only light coming from the dim open door, but there was no mistaking the Hound’s hulking figure.

After she had eaten her meager dinner and he still hadn’t came back, Sansa had allowed herself to hope that he had forgotten about her. She should’ve known better than to hope for such.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she heard him fumbling with what sounded like clothing. Dread began to pool in her stomach. There was a click and then a thud hit the floor. _His swordbelt?_ _Please let that be all he’s taking off_. Yet the fumbling sounds continued and so too did the fear inside her. She was glad for the Hound’s heavy breathing, for she was sure that otherwise he would hear the pounding of her heart. 

After a century of terror, Sansa felt the bed dip down as he joined her. Her nose wrinkled instinctually as the scent of wine hit her like a snowdrift. The smell only furthered her apprehension, she knew some men became angry when they were too far into their cups. _That’s all I need, not just a Hound but an angry Hound._

She began a silent prayer that he would be too drunk to even realize that she was there; praying to be invisible. Alas, her wishes were crushed, literally and figuratively, when the Hound rolled over and draped a heavy arm over her middle, knocking the wind out of her. Her gasp caused him to jump and remove the weight from her, drawing his arm back while simultaneously turning his head to face her. _At least in the dark I can’t see his face._

“Well look, my own little bird, sleeping in my bed.” A heavy hand reached over to run through her hair and brush against her face. A blush creeped up her cheeks, making her skin feel hot underneath his cold fingers. Suddenly, his hand was replaced by his face. She squeaked in surprise as his arm yanked her close, flush against his body, with his face buried in her hair. It was at that moment she truly understood just how large he was. Despite having always considered herself tall, Sansa’s feet only came to his knees. His bare chest seemed the girth of a full grown tree trunk, though perhaps it was her fear that made him appear thrice his true size. His beard scratched her neck and his hair tickled her nose. He smelled of wine most prominently, but there was ocean air there as well, wet sand, wood, and sweat. It wasn’t as unpleasant as she had expected.

His hand moved from her waist and began to circle patterns on her back, running up and down again, causing her to shiver. “You smell like the sea, girl. And you feel hot to the touch. Perhaps you’re overdressed?”

There was no time to respond before the giant man tore her dress down the back, buttons popping everywhere. A cry left her lips as the Hound relieved her of her ruined gown. Sansa tried to focus on the wonderful fact that she had been clever enough to hide the dagger earlier in the day, yet the horror of the moment overwhelmed her. _He’ll ruin me_ , she thought, tears pearling in her eyes. 

“Mmmm,” his hands explored her almost-bare skin, covered only by her shift. As sudden as a rainstorm, she felt a warmth begin to spread throughout her limbs and a dizziness cloud her mind. Outraged that her body was behaving thus, Sansa clenched her fists against his chest and took a deep breath. Though Sansa had shared a chaste kiss with a charming son of one of her father’s friends, that was as far as her knowledge went when it came to matters such as this. Did he expect her to do something? Why did she _care at all_ about her inexperience? She hated him!

Teeth grazing her neck, he rasped, “Never had a wife before. But I think I’ll enjoy having something so sweet in my bed come night.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “I’ve said no vows.”

He chuckled. “Coughing the sea water out of your lungs after I breathed life back into you are the only vows I need to hear. I took you and now you’re mine. That’s the way of the world, little bird. If your previous man wasn’t strong enough to keep you safe, then he didn’t deserve you.”

She attempted to process his words and reply with something that would hurt him, yet all she could blurt out was, “I’ve had no other man.” Her voice cracked as she tried to rub the wetness out of her eyes.

The Hound’s hands stilled on her body. “You’re lying.”

A strangled laugh bubbled out of her at the absurdity of that statement. “Why would I lie? Why do you think my only defender was my sister?” _Arya_. Sansa’s longing for her sister in this moment stung her like a blow to the stomach. Her fierce sister had to have survived; it was the only thought that kept Sansa sane.

“You’re a maid?” He asked, apparently believing her this time.

Embarrassment flowered in her cheeks; how vulgar to ask her such a question. Yet she didn’t want to anger him with silence, and he was a savage after all, so she whispered, “Yes.”

“Bugger me,” he muttered, and she wasn’t sure if she was meant to hear. “Your father must have kept you under lock and key.”

“And now _you_ have locked me away,” she said before she considered whether that would anger him. However he only chuckled again, and resumed stroking her back.

“I suppose I have. I did not wish to share my prize with hungry dogs. Tomorrow I will let you out to smell the fresh air, but only if you promise to not try to fly off again.” His voice was unusually gentle and Sansa did not know what to make of it. _Is he trying to be kind? Why would he bother?_

“I promise,” she lied. 

He seemed satisfied with that. His fingers brushed over her ribs, and Sansa squirmed at the ticklish sensation. However, her movements caused to her shift into a new position, her leg now pressed firmly against something very hard. It took her a moment to realize what it was, and when she did, Sansa was sure her entire body had turned red from mortification. Though thankfully he was wearing breeches, the sensation remained entirely numbing. The Hound wanted her. 

At her accidental touch, the fearsome man exhaled sharply.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to --”

Her apologies were cut off by his mouth, harsh and demanding against her own. It was a strange sensation, with one side burned, twisted and hard, yet somehow not unenjoyable. Almost instantly, she felt her body’s own reaction: a twist of fire heating up her core and centering in her lower belly, creating an ache she had never felt before. Frustrated, she tried to force the feeling away. _He is your captor! A monster! A Viking!_ She succeeded for a while, until he gripped her harder to himself and ran his tongue along her lips. The spark returned and she found herself clutching at his shoulders without realizing how they had gotten there. _Maybe it won’t be so bad,_ she tried to convince herself. _Maybe he’ll be gentle. And when he’s had his fill and falls asleep I can slit his throat like Robb taught me._

The small amount of confidence she had mustered vanished when he rolled her on her back and settled atop her. Never in her life had she felt so invaded, so consumed; he was everywhere. His smell was a cloud around her, his hands were leaving fire in their wake, and her whole body was being pressed down by his massive, muscled form.Her shift was far too thin, allowing her to feel the heat of his chest against her own. Though she suspected he was supporting most of his weight, she still felt like she was drowning, only this time it was not the bitingly cold ocean, but the scalding heat of her _husband_. His hardness pressed stiffly into the inside of her thigh as he continued to control her lips. While one arm was bent by her head to hold himself up, the other was wandering. She whimpered when his hand slipped under her shift and up against her bare waist, finally reaching her chest. 

_“They’re coming for you,” the soldier boy had told them._ At the time, Sansa didn’t understand what he meant, not truly. It had seemed to bleak a nightmare to be true. Nevertheless, here she was, and every rough caress of the Hound’s hand proved the boy’s words to be true. That boy was probably dead now.

The Hound smiled into her mouth when he squeezed her breast. “So soft. Much too sweet for the likes of me.” She felt his lips arrive at her neck and bite softly. “But you are my wife now, aren’t you little bird? I guess I’ll just have to endure to sweetness.” He trailed kisses down her neck and collarbone, cradling her possessively. 

Sansa tried to respond, but all that came out was a heaving cry. The events of the previous day flashed before her eyes -- all she could see was her beloved Winterfell on fire, all she could hear was Arya screaming as she leapt from Ice Keep. And so Sansa Stark cried, sobbed, for how could she have possibly thought she could outsmart the Hound? A killer? Her? Who was she fooling? She was a daft, stupid bird, just like he had said. There was no way for her to escape this ship, let alone the man sharing her bed. Robb would never come on his white horse to save her. Her father would not carry her from this room on his shoulders. She was the wife of a Viking. And so she cried.

Sansa felt the Hound pull back to rest on his forearms, staring down at her. “No, little bird,” he said, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears from her face. “None of this.”

But she couldn’t stop the water flowing down her cheeks, nor the desperate sounds leaping from her throat. “Stop it, girl.” The Hound growled at her, shaking her shoulders lightly. “What were you expecting? I’m not a good man, Sansa. You’re idiotic if you expected anything else.”

Though his words were cruel, Sansa sensed an underlying defensiveness, a guilty tone. When she noticed this quality, Petyr’s previous, almost-forgotten words rang out in her head, as if he were right there with her, whispering in her ear: _“Find a weakness. Exploit it. You’re a beautiful innocent girl, that will be many a man’s undoing.”_

Could this be the Hound’s weakness? A desire to be something good, perhaps? Her mother had often said that it was human nature to act as you are expected to. Those who are expected to be brutes too often turned into them. Maybe that was the way with the Hound? _Well, I have nothing else up my sleeve, perhaps this route will sway him._ “You said you...” she paused for a shaky breath. “Wouldn’t hurt me.” When there was no response, she reached her hand up to touch his scarred cheek. “Please. Please, Sandor.”

At this, his expression softened and he touched her face very lightly, as if he was afraid she would shatter should his grip be too strong. He appraised her for a long moment until he agreed with her. “No, little bird. I won’t hurt you.” He removed his weight from her, and laid down next to her, resuming his original position with a heavy sigh.

_Exploit the weakness._

Her throat and eyes burned from her multiple crying outbursts throughout the day, but her fear of the man abated somewhat now that he did not seem determined to devour her. _Have I gained the upper hand?_ Curious, yet cautious, as to how much further she could shift the situation, Sansa decided to test the waters. “Will I live with you when we reach Askrow? Forgive me, I do not know what is typical for...for...”

“For what, girl?” He snapped. _He says little bird when he’s being gentle, girl when he is not_ , she made a mental note.

“For husband and wife of your people.” She whispered quietly, trying to judge his reaction as much as possible in the darkness. Her heat beat hadn’t slowed in the slightest, no matter how hard she tried to recover her breath, and now that his heat was gone, she shivered slightly.

Sandor’s eyes widened in surprise at her choice of words, just as Sansa had predicted. She was seemingly relenting to her fate by calling herself his wife, though in truth, Sansa only wished to know whether her cooperating would make things better or worse for her. By the new comforting tone in his voice, Sansa assumed that “better” was the answer. “Yes, you will live with me.” He paused and ran a hand through his hair, staring at the ceiling of the cabin. She waited, wondering if he had more to add.

“I would keep you safe,” he muttered at last. “No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” With that, he pulled her closer, gently this time, and turned to be able to hold her to his chest. Sansa’s breathing hitched, wondering if he would pick up where he left off before the crying, but he appeared content just to hold her.

No more words were spoken, and as the minutes passed, Sansa breathed out a quiet sigh of relief. Nothing further was expected of her. So she waited for his breathing to even out signaling sleep, and bided her time.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sandor**

 

****He watched her, the unpredictable little bird, though Sandor was positive that she thought him asleep. One did not survive the fury of Viking women by sleeping heavily, he had learned that early on. It was far too common for the wench to be willing in bed, and even more willing to slid a knife through his ribs later. Though he expected it of practically every Viking woman he took to bed, he had to admit the little bird was surprising him yet again. His eyes narrowed as he appraised the slender form of the red-haired beauty glide around the bed and toward the far side of their room.

She sunk to her knees silently and began to pull at one of the floorboards. Confused, Sandor continued to watch, making sure his deep breathing remained in check and he did not shift around. 

Though the floor gave a tiny squeak as Sansa removed a floorboard, a less paranoid man would have never even woken to whatever the little bird had planned. _I left her alone for one afternoon and she’s hidden things in the floorboards?_ Perhaps she was more of a Viking than he had given her credit for. 

She reached her arm into the darkness and returned with steel, glinting slightly. It was all Sandor could do to remain immobile. _Where the bloody fuck did she get her hands on a dagger?!_ Though he knew he should reveal his consciousness and end this folly before the stupid bird hurt herself, he was too curious to see what she would do next. The girl turned the weapon over in her hand, staring at it.

_The tears were fake,_ he realized with a sudden fury. It was all an act -- it had to be. Oh, she was good, he would give her that. The weeping and gasping and pleading had sounded so damn genuine; how could he harm such an innocent creature that had suffered so much so recently, only to be forced to endure him? Yet here was the weeping bird, clutching her dagger to her chest and preparing to murder him, the man she had called her _husband_ only a few hours prior. Wrath consumed him. _Liar!_ He gripped the sheets to keep himself from getting up and gripping her pretty little neck instead. 

_One move toward me girl, and I’ll fuck you bloody and snap your neck after. We’ll see where your false tears get you then._

Minutes passed and girl remained unmoving, staring at the blade as though it were a foreign object. Then he noticed her shoulders shaking and was hit once again with confusion. The rage retreated slightly as he tried to puzzle out what she was doing. _Crying? Did she know I am watching her?_ No, that couldn’t be it. For if she knew his was awake, why would she reveal her hiding spot? It didn’t make sense. Perhaps the dagger scared her; the thought of killing someone disturbed the frail girl too much, even if it was her scarred Hound.

He wanted her to move. He wanted her to get up with that knife in her grip, and try her very best to kill him. Because then he would’ve been proven right. That the brief kindness she had showed him was a lie, that her tears were poisoned, that even his own wife was filled with malice and hatred toward him. That even the sweet-smelling bird was cruel underneath her courtesies. 

But she did not move towards him. After wrestling with herself for a long time, Sansa wiped her cheeks on her arm and then did yet another thing he had not expected: she quietly put the blade back where it came from, and moved the floorboard back in place. She rose to her feet gracefully and walked back around to her side of the bed. He couldn’t see her anymore, as she was behind him, but her felt her weight, light as it was, press into the bed next to him. The little bird sniffled a few times and then scooted close to him, little fists balled up against his back and her forehead resting on his shoulder. Sandor felt her her quick, warm breaths against his bare skin.

_She believed she had the chance to kill me and she did not take it -- why?_

Obviously it was not out of affection that she had chosen not to stab him. Maybe the girl realized that without Sandor she would be torn apart in seconds by the rest of the men. Maybe she was just scared. _These thoughts will keep until the morning._ Sandor eventually drifted into a troubled sleep, filled with dreams of a bird with broken wings.

 


	4. Knights and Murderers

**Sansa**

 

****The alcohol overwhelmed her senses, making some things seem utterly heightened while others were blurred and distorted. Grasping for the small stone cup which felt alarmingly cold against her hot fingers, Sansa raised it to her mouth and downed it to the sound of cheers and laughter. _Was that the sixth one? The seventh?_ She laughed along with them, unable to remember that they were the enemy. How could they be? Everyone was so happy; it was the most fun she could ever remembering having. Is this how men felt when they drank at night? How much she had been missing out on! Though truth be told, Sansa couldn’t recall much except for the fact that she had to keep drinking to win the game. 

The Viking woman across from her smirked as Sansa began to sway on her bench, clinging to the table. Osha was her name; a surly woman with cropped brown hair and a daring twinkle in her eye. “Want to play a game, Red?” The woman had asked. With a axe strapped to her back and knives on both thighs, Sansa was not about to refuse Osha anything. And besides, games were supposed to be fun, right?

Sansa had never played this game. Osha called it ‘Get Red So Drunk She’ll Fall Off The Ship’ but Sansa doubted that that was it’s true name. Her head pounded. Trying to think only made it hurt more so Sansa decided to just stay in the present. Winning the game.

Osha laughed heartily and called for a refill in her cup as well. “I have to admit, Red, ya got more in ya then I had expected.” With a grunt, the woman knocked back hernewest portion, wiping her mouth on her sleeve after. 

Sansa tried to make her lips move properly, but the words still came out slurred and distorted. “ _Ladies_ do not drink, that’s what my mother told me. But my father always said...” She paused for a hiccup, which had the crowd laughing again. “He said, _Starks_ do not back down from a...” Hiccup. “Challenge!” 

While Sansa was barely able to hold herself upright, Osha appeared rather unaffected by the drinking, apart from a rosy complexion and glassy eyes. Sansa knew she would not be able to hold out much longer. She glanced around the room at the many faces that had gathered to see the Hound’s trophy attempt to out-drink one of the meanest wenches on the ship. Her eyes finally settled on Sandor, whose face was impassive, yet she thought she glimpsed amusement in his eyes. He sat a bit away from the spectacle, bulging arms crossed over his chest, observing silently. Though he was quiet, his superiority within the social ladder on the ship was evident. The men and occasional woman around Sandor gave him a small berth, and often looked to him first to judge his reaction before laughing at something Osha said about Sansa. 

_What a lovely man,_ Sansa thought happily. _He is so strong. The Gods surely looked down on me when selecting a husband._ She felt a nagging in the back of her head that this wasn’t true. Was he her husband? Osha had called him Sansa’s man, so why couldn’t she remember the wedding? But once again, thinking and trying to recall the past only threatening to make her head explode. So she accepted that which must be true.

Sandor shook his head at her as one would at a child who had gotten herself into a mess she couldn’t hope to get out of on her own. Sansa only smiled at him and giggled. It seemed she could not stop giggling. Or hiccuping. “I am going to win the game, husband!” She shouted at him, rocking on her seat as another fit of laughter took her. This time an entertained grin crossed Sandor’s face. 

Osha laughed and a taunting gleam crossed her eyes. “You want to win, girl? Here.” She handed the entire flagon of mead to Sansa. “You drink all of that and stay upright, you win. Can’t go retching it back up neither.” 

Sansa snatched the alcohol from her to the tune of jeers. 

The burly and bearded Shagga had began pounding a rhythm into the table with the butt of his axe. “My gold is on you, Red! Come on, down it already!”

What fun these games were! And she was about to win! Sandor would be so proud of her. After a deep breath, Sansa brought the flagon up to her mouth and tipped it back, listening to Osha and the others laughing as it dribbled down her chin and onto the tunic Sandor had given her after he had ruined her dress. Yet she did not stop, even when her eyes began to burn and her vision began to grow foggy. Her limbs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds, yet she continued to gulp. _For once in my life, I can be the stronger one_ , she thought as her stomach threatened to turn over its contents. 

Finally, the flagon was empty. The crowd cheered. Beyond being able to rationalize anything at this point, Sansa slammed the flagon down so hard it shattered. She laughed wildly, throwing her head back. That soon became a bad idea however, for her head was so _heavy_. . .with a thump, she tumbled off her bench and onto the ground, arms outstretched as if she was making a snow angel. This seemed even funnier to her, and she cackled once more.

Osha stood and peered down at her. “You lose, Red!”

Sansa grinned broadly at the woman’s blurry face and allowed her eyes to close as everything went black.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sandor**

 

Over the past few days upon _The Stranger,_ Sandor had fallen into a routine with the little bird. A tense, uncomfortable, and paranoid routine, but a routine nonetheless. Early each morning he would break his fast with the other men and have food sent to their room so Sansa could eat when she woke and dress in peace. Without fail, Bronnwould inquire as to how the little bird was betwixt the sheets, and everyday he would lie. Then fat Sam would hesitantly ask how she was faring with seasickness, and everyday he would tell him to bugger off. By noon he would retrieve her to stand above deck. Each day she would ask how much longer until they reached her new home, and each day he would say, “Soon.”

She would lean over the railing and let the wind tousle her hair, the sun warm her face. The other men would shoot appreciative looks and Sandor would glower at them until they returned to their duties. To him, the little bird was never more beautiful than when she closed her eyes and allowed the ocean breeze to dance in her fiery locks. For those few moments in the sun she looked at peace and Sandor could pretend that she was happy. 

When or why her happiness began to matter to him, he couldn’t say. It seemed a trivial thing, truly. She was already his, wed in the eyes of the men, so why did he care about fucking _courting_ her? It was a notion that his younger self would have been thrilled at. The young boy with a whole face, who had dreams to be a knight and marry a fair maiden. Those dreams were burned to ashes along with his skin.

Leaving home after his sister had died had left Sandor with no direction or notion where to go. All he knew was that he could not stay anywhere near his brother. Gregor, the giant that dwarfed even Sandor, laughed the day he left and wished him good riddance. It was only on his way out of Clegane Keep when he heard the shout, “I hope the Vikings flay your fucking ass!”

Though flaying was certainly a plausible concern, throwing his lot in with the Vikings that ravaged their shores seemed as good a plan as any. There was no other family to turn to -- certainly no friends to speak of. He was two and ten when he stepped on his first Viking ship and was pulled headfirst into the whirlwind lifestyle. Young Sandor had learned to adapt quickly, not only to the ever shifting homes, but to the utterly backwards cultural norms. The strong survive. One does not pity the weak. A Viking woman is not expected to be a lady, but rather praised if she turns out an axe-throwing siren. Young men do not court women, they steal them. Sandor had learned these things long ago, so why was it so hard for him to remember them around the little bird?

Perhaps because she was a perfect replica of who he was before his sister died. She was from his other world, the life that he chose to leave behind. 

After she’d gotten her fill of gazing out to see, he would give her leave of the ship. He trusted his men enough, or rather trusted them to be afraid of him enough, to let her alone as she wandered. What she chose to do, he was not sure. But some part of Sandor hoped that putting his trust in her would spark some sort of trust in return. So far, that seemed unsuccessful.

In the evening, he would bring the little bird and their supper back to their rooms where dinner was an awkward affair. He tried his very best to be gentle with her, realizing that he had made her cry twice now (though he still wasn’t sure if the second time was genuine). Yet it looked as if Sansa had lost some of her original zealous defiance. For each kind word he offered her, the more confused her expressions became. Sandor, on more than one occasion, caught her arguing with herself in a hushed voice. He knew it had to do with the dagger.

For the dagger was the final part of the routine. She would tense up when he joined her in bed and seemingly prepared herself for a similar outburst like the one from the first night. But Sandor forced his instinct away, forced the growing lust and deprivation he felt out of his mind -- comforting himself with the thought of how much better the fucking would be if she were eager. When she came to the conclusion that her husband would keep his hands to himself, Sansa would relax and her breathing would grow steady and deep, though Sandor had learned not to mistake that for sleeping. 

When the moon was at its peak, the little bird would rise from their bed, silent as the dead, and return to her not-so-secret floorboard. From there, every night was the same. She would hold the steel for awhile, sometimes cry, and then without fail, return the blade to its hiding place. Each night he waited for her to try and end him. Each night he was surprised. 

Though this, Sandor carrying the little bird above deck to try to wake her up from her alcohol-induced stupor, was definitely not part of their routine. He figured he should be cross with her, as that was how most men would feel should their wives had passed out drunk from a drinking contest. Yet frankly Sandor was relieved to see any emotion on her face at all, even if it was spurred on by mead. Sober, she was a stone wall with a flawless mask. Drunk, his little bird acted as though she were raised by wolves, and gods be damned he enjoyed it.

Introducing Sansa to another woman aboard the ship had not gone at all how he’d planned. He’d chosen Osha because despite her outward surliness and tendency to threaten anyone, Sandor knew that she would be receptive of Sansa, having been stolen herself. Osha’s husband was now dead, but she had chosen to continue the Viking lifestyle on her own. Not knowing her though, one would never guess she wasn’t born into the world squalling with an axe in hand.

It soon became apparent that Osha’s way of welcoming the girl was to drown her in mead. He found it difficult to be angry at the Viking woman, since it led to the opportunity of carrying Sansa, which allowed for much more bodily contact than he had permitted himself over the last few days. She was soft in his arms; her expression peaceful. _Only took a few drinks to get you to like me, little bird._

Yes, he could recount very clearly her smile at him. Childishly, he replayed that moment over and over in his mind. She had been so _happy._ Her smile was radiant, her blue eyes glowing, her cheeks flushed to match her hair. Moreover, her joy at been directed at _him,_ the scarred dog whom she had called _husband._ Sure, the drinking had helped her along, but here she was, content in his arms. 

_Content? You sick dog, she’s passed out. She would never come this close willingly._

When Sandor reached the top deck, a cool breeze making the night chilly, he sat atop a crate and looked down at the girl. He had hoped the night air would bring her back to her senses, but so far she had not stirred. As gently as he could manage, he traced a finger down her face and placed it on her neck, feeling her pulse flutter under his touch.

“Wake up, little bird.” He said softly. “Time to wake up, now.”

She stirred slightly and rubbed her firsts into her eyes. “You took quite a fall,” he continued. “How’s your head?” Sandor ran a hand through her hair, but it seemed she was bump-free. 

Sansa groaned and opened her eyes. “Did I win the game?”

Laughing heartily at that, Sandor replied, “Yes. You won the game.” Technically she _had_ lost her balance, signaling a defeat, but Sandor would rather see the girl smile, which she did, quite widely at his words. 

“Hmmm,” she hummed happily. “You are proud of me now.”

“Am I?” His faced twitched, amused.

“Yes, very proud. Robb is very proud too. Where is Robb? One time, this boy came to visit us. His name was Joff, so so very handsome. But Robb didn’t like Joff, not at all.” She yawned and then giggled. “It was an accident, I told them it was an accident and she did not mean it, but Lady bit him. He was bleeding and crying and I said _she did not mean it!_ but everyone thought I told her to. Joffrey was very cross, but oh how Robb laughed. _‘I’m proud you’re my sister.’_ That’s what he said. I was not embarrassed so much after that.”

She mumbled a bit more, incoherently. It was clear she was well on her way to passing out once more from the mead’s effects. Deciding he should get her into bed, Sandor stood, the little bird still tucked in his arms, and began heading back to their cabin. 

“Where is Robb, husband? Where is Arya?” 

“I don’t know, little bird.” He answered truthfully, the questions dampening his previous mood. 

She nuzzled her face further into his chest. “Little bird, little bird. Sing a sweet song.”

_She needs to sleep this off_ , he thought, half amused, and half concerned over her obvious yearning for her family. Sandor had never given it much thought, this mourning of hers, considering his family life had been anything but happy. A Hell on Earth was more like it. A unexpected pang of...guilt? rang through him. Not once in his life as a Viking had Sandor ever experienced a guilty conscience. They were weak, and he was strong; wasn’t that the rule? Wasn’t that the way of it? So why did he feel _shameful_ of what had happened at Winterfell?

“I’m sorry Jon. I prayed for you too, I remember.” Sansa murmured. Sandor stepped over someone else who was feeling the effects of the mead as well; Jarl. The young man mumbled as they passed and rolled over into a more comfortable position on the floor. 

Agitated, Sandor snapped, “They aren’t here, girl. It’s just me and you. Stop dreaming. They’re dead. Too much bloody mead for you. It all goes to your head.”

The girl whimpered and clasped her hands over her ears as he kicked the door to their room open. Darkness engulfed them, the room lit only by a small candle left on the table. He carried the drunken bird to the bed and dropped her unceremoniously. He was about to turn to leave the little bird and her drunken ramblings when he felt a small hand tug on his arm.

“Tell me about our wedding, Sandor.” The little bird asked, holding on to him for dear life. “I can’t remember. Osha made me drink too much.” Her words slurred and her eyes couldn’t seem to focus on him, but he couldn’t sense a lie. She was too far gone to possibly recall the Vikings landing at Winterfell.

Sandor smirked. “Oh, she _made_ you drink did she? You seemed to be doing pretty well on your own.”

She sighed and slumped down onto the pillows. “Was our wedding beautiful? Was it in the godswood under the Heart tree?” 

Sandor shifted uncomfortably when he realized she was expecting an answer. If he reminded her of the truth, there was no doubt she would start her crying again. So he muttered, “Aye, girl.”

“Did the whole town come?” She closed her eyes and smiled, as if she were picturing a fantasy in her mind. He was sure she was picturing a gallant knight, one that deserved all of her beauty. There were no scarred Hounds at a beautiful wedding; the thought of it would’ve made him laugh if it didn’t anger him so. The thought of her fantasizing about a handsome little lordling made him want to grab his sword, and the fact that he was even getting angry about the stupid bird’s dreams in the first place infuriated him further. 

_She’s getting in your head._

“The entire town came to see you marry your bloody knight, girl. Just like you wanted.” He leered over her and in his fit of rage, grabbed her throat with a yank, sobering her quickly. Sansa’s eyes filled with fear as the burned man held her close to his face. Sandor could practically smell her terror and reviled in it. “He gave you his cloak and vowed to protect you, and then I ran my sword through him.”

“Your buggering knight couldn’t protect you, no one can save you from me.” With a growl, he released her with a shove and she fell back onto the bed, staring wide-eyed. Her red hair fanned underneath her, her hands were holding her throat in the place Sandor’s had been only a moment ago. 

Right when he was ready to rid himself of this girl, this deluded buggering girl that had him feeling _shame_ , the little bird murmured, “But you are my knight, Sandor. Aren’t you?”

_Damn Osha and damn all the alcohol in this bloody world._

 

* * *

 

 

He left the little bird curled into their bed, fast asleep and dreaming off her drunken stupor. Craving fresh air, Sandor sought out the upper deck once more, relishing in the cool air on his face and the rhythmic slapping of the waves against the hull. Nothing felt more like home to him than the sea. 

Bronn joined him at the railing and for a long while the men simply enjoyed the quiet night. When Bronn finally broke the silence, it was in a calm tone that complimented the sea. His words were measured and careful, making it obvious he had thought for a time before approaching Sandor.

“Hound,” Bronn began. “I think there’s something underneath the surface of that girl you brought here.”

“Sansa.” Sandor corrected.

The Viking arched an eyebrow. “Aye...Sansa. Look, I don’t know nothing for sure.”

“Just say what you need to say.”

He nodded. “You gave her leave of the ship. Now, don’t look like that. None of the men have been messing with her. It’s just...” Bronn paused and pursued his lips. “Day before yesterday, Tormund was bragging about this boy he killed from her village. Not to her face, just to the other men, but she heard it all anyway. Got this weird look like...like I don’t know, brother. Like _you_ almost,” he laughed nervously. “Like you when you’re out for blood.”

Sandor gestured for him to continue.

“I didn’t see anything after that. Didn’t see her around Tormund, she never said anything. But just today the man turns up dead. Samwell says it was a natural death -- some sort of sickness, but... I just got a feeling, you know? My gut tells me it was her.”

The sobbing girl who smiled at his burnt face and called him her knight. The shadow murderer who concealed daggers and leapt into the sea rather than give in.

Sansa Stark was becoming the greatest paradox Sandor Clegane had ever encountered, and for some reason he couldn’t fan his desire to puzzle her out. 

 


	5. An Understanding

**Sansa**

 

****No pain she had ever felt could best the pounding of her head and the aching of her limbs. _So stupid, Sansa, how could you be so stupid?_

 

She allowed Sam to give her various drinks that he claimed would “fix her right up,” but so far, the heavy ache remained. It was a struggle to keep her head up, and every loud noise had her whimpering. _How does Sandor do it, night after night, when you wake like this?_ Vowing to herself that she would never drink again, Sansa murmured, “Thank you, Sam. You are always so kind.”

 

Samwell blushed and busied himself with gathering the various concoctions that claimed to offer headache relief. His light brown hair was growing long, almost covering his brown eyes, and framing his round face. Overall, he was a rather round person, Sansa thought, and he was by far the kindest she had met. Something about his presence set her at ease; Sam reminded her of old Maester Luwin from Winterfell. 

“Just doing my job, Lady Sansa,” he replied humbly, taking care to speak softly. “How is your head?”

 

She smiled weakly and rubbed her temples, trying to quell the storm that raged between them. “Not so bad.” She did not wish to worry the poor boy, so perhaps downplaying it was best.

 

“Good...yes. Anything you need, Lady Sansa, anything...the Hound says I’m to attend to you, whatever you need.” He shifted on his feet, eyeing her as if she was a strange creature. “Lady Sansa...ah...like I said, anything at all.” Sam paused and she waited patiently. “So if it is feminine help you’ll be needing, I can provide you with uh...supplies.” By the end of his speech Sam had turned the color of spilt blood, and refused to meet her eyes, choosing instead to find comfort in the floorboards. 

 

Sansa blushed as well and raised her hands as if to ward off the embarrassment. _I hadn’t even thought of that! Hopefully we make land before that presents itself as a problem..._  

“No, no. I will not be needing that at this time,” she said hurriedly. “Thank you, Sam.”

 

The boy nodded, relief spreading over him like a fresh blanket of snow. “Good, good. Well not good, I mean it’s no bother if you need something, I only was saying--”

 

“Sam?”

 

He looked up finally, eyes wide, awaiting command. “Yes?”

 

“Who brought me to bed? I...I’m afraid I do not remember much of last night,” Sansa admitted shamefully. What would her mother say? Getting drunk, and with her _captors_ on top of it. What had come over her?

 

“The Hound brought you, my lady. Carried you. You...you had fainted from drink.”

 

_Hopefully not in my own vomit,_ she prayed silently, remembering all too well the various sick drunkards from home. “That was,” she hesitated, thoughts turning to the strange man that was her husband. “That was kind of him. I hope I have not angered him too violently.” Sandor carried her to bed? A momentary wave of fright washed over her. What if he had...taken advantage of her? What if she had thrown herself at him? _Why can I not remember anything?_ Anxiety welled up inside her; it was with strength that she forced tears back down. Sansa had cried so often the past few days it was wonder there was any water left in her body. _Stop crying,_ her sister’s voice played in her mind.

 

Surely Sandor would not have used her...altered state to his own pleasure. He wouldn’t, would he? No, no. He had been kind to her, gentle, these previous days. The kindness confused her; Sansa almost preferred him angry -- at least then he was honest. This strange compassion made him hard to read, and Sansa did not enjoy being unsure of his thoughts. 

 

Uncomfortable from her silent contemplation, Sam continued to babble on. “We should be seeing land today, Lady Sansa. Yes, it will be such a relief to be on dry land once more. I was not made for the sea, my lady, not at all. Used to get terribly seasick...”

 

Feeling the heat of the small room, Sansa brushed her hair over her shoulders and glanced up when she heard Sam’s sharp intake of breath that replaced his prattle. “What is it?”

 

Concern was etched into his face. “My lady...your neck...” he stepped closer and ran his fingers lightly over her throat. Sansa winced from the unexpected tenderness, causing her to overlook the fact that he had touched her without permission. It seemed invasion of privacy was common among this crew anyway. “Don’t let the Hound see this, he’ll throttle whoever dared....” A funny look came over the boy’s eyes then. “Lady Sansa, did he do this?”

 

“Do what, Sam?” Sansa asked, a slight panic seeping into her voice. What was he talking about? She reached her own fingers up to brush her skin, and yanked her hand back with a gasp when she realized how swollen and tender it was. “What happened to me?”

 

“You cannot remember?” Sam turned to fumble through his satchel, eventually emerging with a looking glass. Gingerly, he held it out to her.

 

She held the cool glass carefully, and peered in, eyes widening at what she saw. Her hair was a tangled mess, framing her face in a fiery haze, causing her eyes to stand out violently. Her face were sunken in some, making her cheek bones stand out sharply. _I look tired, like I have aged five years._ Yes, her eyes seemed heavier than before, and did not sparkle like she remembered. But it was her neck that drew her eyes, and a gasp.

 

Like a collar, blue blotches wrapped around her throat. A distinct thumb imprint reached up toward her jaw; the rest of the hand was large enough to cover the distance to her opposite ear. _I am so ugly,_ she thought instinctually, tears swimming in her eyes once more. 

 

Sam was talking to her, though it seemed the conversation was more directed toward himself, as she looked on with horror. “He wouldn’t...not the Hound...not with how protective he is of you. I don’t understand. Who did this?”

 

A flash came back to her then: Sandor looming over her on the bed, his face lit by a candle, the terrible burns making him seem a monster out of her nightmares. His words she could not recall, but the feeling of his hand on her neck, the anger in his eyes -- _that_ she remembered. 

 

“My husband did this,” she said quietly, trying to piece back the events from last night in her mind. Her head hurt terribly, and her neck ached, but it was her heart that was causing her the most pain. She did not understand this man, this man that was gentle to her one minute, and leaving her bruised in his wake the next. _He’s a brute, a barbarian, a Viking! Why are you so surprised, stupid girl? Had you believed him good?_

 

Oh, but good he had seemed as he treated her with respect, left her untouched in their bed, allowed her to roam as she pleased.

 

Dread hit her as sudden as a rain storm. _Does he know what I did?_ “Leave me Sam,” Sansa said, and when seeing his confusion, added, “Please. I wish to be alone.”

 

The boy nodded, grabbed his things, and left the room quietly. Alone, her worries were free to eat at her. _Sandor must have found out, that’s why he was so furious._ Sansa wondered if Sam had suspected foul play in the vile man’s death. No, surely that couldn’t be it. The Tears of Lys gave every impression of a natural death, only a master Maester would know the difference...right?

_He knows what you’ve done, he knows, and he’ll come back to kill you for it. Just like you murdered that man._

 

Sansa shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. She killed a man. She didn’t even know his name, did not think, only acted. _He spoke as though it was Jon he had slain! He deserved it! He was only a Viking!_ Yet the word Viking did not hold as much weight to her as it once had. Sam was a Viking, as was Osha. Both were caring in their own way, Osha’s way being a bit rougher than Sam’s. Her husband was a Viking! _It’s not the same, I did not choose him!_

 

Though Sansa tried to reason with her actions, the only image that filled her mind was the weirwood tree’s face, staring out at her with bleeding eyes, knowing what she had done. _The Gods know of my sins._

It might not even had been Jon the man was speaking of. Dark curly hair, fair, and tall. Half the young men in Winterfell looked that way. But all Sansa could see when she heard that abominable Viking bragging was Jon’s dead body. _Jon, my brother, forgive me._ Perhaps it did not matter if it wasn’t Jon. That Viking had killed those of her village, and for that he deserved his fate.

_Who are you to say who lives and who dies?_

 

Robb would not have regretted it. Petyr would have said she did what she had to. Arya would have done it again.

_You are a wolf, not a little bird. Wolves are made to kill. They do not regret it._

 

Slowly, she picked the looking glass up again and inspected her neck. _“I won’t hurt you, little bird.”_ Sandor’s voice played over and over in her mind. For some reason it was not the fact that he had bruised her that left her so angry, but the fact that he had lied. He had lied right to her face, and Sansa believed him. It was an irrational anger, for how many times had she lied to him? _I made no promises, it is different._ But it wasn’t different, not really. Yet the rage remained, simmering like a tea kettle. 

 

Sam had told her that Sandor had demanded her presence for the midday meal, but Sansa could not imagine anything she would like to do less. It would not do for the crew to see the shameful marks she wore around her neck. So instead, she pulled open the familiar floorboard, slipped the steel into her pocket of her borrowed breaches, sat in the sturdy chair and waited for him to find her. He knew what she had done. So let him finish it. If she was lucky, she could take him to the grave with her.

 

* * *

 

 

Sandor returned sooner than she had expected, only an hour or two after she had decided on waiting him out. He threw open the door in the fury she had expected, barring the door behind him. She tried not to let her fear show, and instead curled her hand around the dagger in her pocket, ready to yank it out the moment he got too close.

“You think you’re too good for me, girl?” He snarled, leaning against the wall across from her, bulging arms crossed over his chest. “Think you can just send around that fat boy like he’s your own servant? _Informing_ me that you’re staying in _your_ cabin?”

 

Sansa refused to meet his angry gray eyes, and instead stared at her lap, hands dug deep into her pockets. 

 

“You know what I think?” He hissed. “I think you need to learn your place, girl. I’m the only thing that stands between you and the depths of the ocean. How do you like that?”

 

Still, she did not meet his gaze, feeling a cold ice in her belly, and a shaking in her hands as she clutched the wolf knife. 

 

Sandor seemed intend on taunting her enough so that she would be forced to glare at him. “Or maybe your not feeling well from your little game with Osha last night. No one forced you to drink, you stupid bird, so don’t be staying in here blaming me. I could drag you out of here and _make you_ be my dutiful little wife. I could pick you up right now and press you into that bed and fuck you bloody, how would that suit you _my lady?”_

 

“Look at me, damn you!” He gripped her chin roughly and forced her face upward, exposing her neck. Sansa watched as the anger left his face, replaced by bewilderment, then replaced once more by a storm of fury that make the previous anger seem calm. 

 

Very slowly, Sandor kneeled in front of her and brushed his fingers over her throat, tracing the black and blue marks gently. He began to breathe very deeply as he held her face in his too-large hands. “Who did this to you?”

 

_What?_ Did he not remember last night? Was he as drunk as she was last night, unable to recall their altercation? Not that Sansa could remember the cause of it either, but she at least knew he had grabbed her. 

 

He took her silence as fear and said, “Little bird, tell me who did this and I’ll kill the bastard.”

 

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “You would have to take your own life then.”

Sandor recoiled as if she had slapped him. “I did not do this.”

 

“Yes you did.” She argued. “You grabbed me last night.”

 

Shaking his head, Sandor looked uncertain for the first time since he had taken her. “No...no I couldn’t have done that.” He ran his thumbs over her neck lightly, fingers resting on her cheeks. “You’re lying. I couldn’t hurt you.”

 

Anger flashed through her, sudden and fierce. “You couldn’t hurt me? You stole me from my home and killed my people and burned my village and you did _this!”_ Alarmed by her assault, Sandor backed away, and that only spurred her on further. Past thinking, past caring, Sansa drew the dagger from her pocket and shoved it against his throat, grabbing his hair with her other fist. Surprise colored his face, followed by a silent understanding that she did not comprehend. 

 

“You killed him,” he said slowly. “Didn’t you, little bird?”

 

A cold dread settled over her and Sansa tried to push it away. She thought she had accepted the fact that she had ended a life but hearing someone else say it made the deed so much worse. Her neck ached, and a small drop of blood appeared from his skin as she pressed the blade harder. Sansa willed herself not to faint. Unbidden, tears began stinging her eyes. “Yes.” She whispered her confession. “Yes I did. I’ll kill you too; don’t think I won’t.”

 

Carefully, Sandor wrapped his hand around her own, and took the dagger from her grip. She allowed him to do so, because she knew he was right. He was the only thing that was protecting her as of now, and frankly she wasn’t sure she could even stand to see more blood. Poison was an unseen death and that had damaged her more than she could’ve predicted. She absolutely could not draw the blade herself.

And then Sandor was holding her, and she allowed him that as well. She wound her arms around his middle and buried her face into his shoulder, relishing in the feeling of just being close to another human being. The unburned side of his face was toward her own, and she tried to imagine what he would look like if he had never been scarred. His leather jerkin was smooth against her cheek and his arms were warm around her. 

 

“Little bird,” he murmured and ran a hand through her hair. She closed her eyes and clutched him closer, wishing for Winterfell, wishing for her family, but mostly wishing that she could learn to love this scarred man that had stolen her. _I could pretend it was a secret romance, and he had to steal me away to be together._ When speaking of Sansa’s future husband, Lady Catelyn had always assured her that love would blossom eventually, even if he was a stranger on their wedding day. That’s what happened for her parents, maybe it could happen for Sansa as well. She laughed at that thought, a broken sound, and knew the situation was entirely different. But still, love lessened any ache.

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sandor rasped, referring to her neck. “I will be more careful with such a fragile wife.” 

 

Sansa assumed that was as close as she would get to an apology. “I am sorry I threatened to kill you,” she replied, wondering if he would take the dagger away from her now. 

 

He chuckled at that and let her go, but keeping a hand on her shoulder. His dark hair was pulled back today, and she got a full view of the warped flesh that ravaged half of his otherwise handsome face. It still unsettled her, but not so much when he laughed and smiled at her. “Don’t apologize to the likes of me. I deserve all of your hatred, girl.” Sandor placed the dagger back into her hands. “Would you like to keep it? Or should I return it to it’s place under the floorboards?”

 

Mortification flushed through Sansa’s entire body. _He had known the entire time._ That thought was so entirely unsettling, she found herself completely speechless. Instead of attempting an excuse, she meekly took it from the intimidating man and slid it back into her pocket. 

 

He spared her further embarrassment and took her hand. He looked at her neck once more, and his lips pressed into a hard line. 

 

“I bruise easily,” she offered, wanting to continue this uncertain peace that had grown between them.

 

Sandor cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t. Don’t make excuses for me.” Sansa began to feel uncomfortable under his heavy stare when he finally said, “This will not happen again. Damn wine.”

She nodded, and that seemed enough for him. Gently, he tugged her toward the door. “Come, we can see the land now, most like. Should be there soon.” 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well better late than never, that's what they say right?


	6. An Old Acquaintance

**Sandor**

 

_The Stranger_ shuddered as she made anchor. The port was quickly filling up with her sister ships, the rest of the Viking fleet. Fleet was a term applied loosely, as that made it sound as though there was a strict discipline. In reality, the rag-tag cluster of sea vessels were held together only by a common love for pillaging and mead. But that was enough. 

Sandor stood tall on the deck, the little bird at his side. She was watching the port with wide eyes, seemingly surprised by the amount of ships that continued to fill the docks. Men and women ran on and off the decks like ants, helping to unload the treasure-heavy ships. This voyage had been a long one, more than a few turns of the moon, and the crews had the bounties to show for it. Yes, many towns had witnessed their fury, and Sandor knew they would be well-provisioned come winter. 

“How many are there?” The little bird asked, as _Black Wind_ added to the number of docked ships.

“Three and twenty set out. Some may have been lost. We will see.” He rasped in reply, eyes scanning for the captain of the most recent arrival.

Ah, there she was. Asha Greyjoy leapt to the railing of _Black Wind_ , waving her arm in greeting. “Oi, Hound!” She was tall and stocky, with brown shoulder-length hair flying in the wind. Her axe she fondly named her husband was strapped to her hip, and her eyes were alight with her typical vivaciousness. “Come on down and have a word with me! I want to show you what the ocean spat up.”

Sandor raised his arm in greeting, and nodded. “Time to go, little bird. Welcome to Askrow.”

She looked up at him, eyes blue and wide and oddly trusting, and gave a slight nod.

Placing his hand on the little bird’s back -- gently, yes he needed to be as gentle as possible -- Sandor led her down the plank to the dock, watching carefully for anything she might trip on. She smiled slightly at his over-attentiveness, and that smile went straight to his gut. He cursed himself, not for the first time, for being an utter _boy_ whenever Sansa Stark was concerned. The wind blew her hair back and revealed the marks he had left on her otherwise milky skin. It sickened him. 

_No more wine for you, you fucking bastard._ Sandor wanted to blame the alcohol for the actions, wanted to blame anything at all rather than realize what he had done to the fragile girl. Ashamed, he looked away from her neck and focused on making sure she didn’t get jostled by the streams of people unloading cargo. 

He led her over to where the captain was leaning against her boat. The smell of salt and fish surrounded them, not unpleasantly. To Sandor it smelled like home.

“Ahhh, looks as though the ocean was kind to you as well, Hound.” Asha noted, eyeing Sansa up and down. “But my gain is much more exciting, I assure you.”

Sandor chuckled, though he doubted that very much. The little bird looked almost comical standing next to the rugged Asha, as different as night and day. Where she was petit and quiet, Asha was muscled and exuded confidence. He watched her, half listening to Asha, and half absorbed in Sansa’s features. Sansa was watching the crowds around her with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

Meanwhile, the axe-weilding captain was still speaking. “--so of course, I turn him over, expecting a dead boy. But he’s spurting up water and trying to stab me still, and that’s when I realize, I recognized that son of bitch’s face! You’ll never believe it, but it turns out to be--”

“THEON?” The little bird shrieked, and suddenly she was running from him, sprinting faster than he would have thought possible, up toward where _Black Wind_ was tied to the dock. Her flaming hair flew behind her, and her too-large tunic fluttered and rippled.

That’s when he spied the tall and lanky boy running just as fast off of the ship, arms wide open and laughing wildly. Anger coursed through him as the pretty boy called, “Sansa!” and ushered her into his embrace. She giggled, a sound he had never heard, as the boy called Theon twirled her around in the air. He noticed then that the sun reflected off the tears falling down her face, before she buried her smile into his shoulder. Theon placed kisses all over her head, grinning like an idiot.

“Your pretty wife knows my brother?” Asha seemed amused by this. “Uh oh. Theon better watch where he puts his hands.”

Sandor growled. “Your _brother_ will be lucky if he still has hands.” He began storming toward the happy couple, and Asha quickly stepped in between them, palms held up and all amusement gone from her face. 

“Hound, stop.” She backtracked, facing him, as he pushed through others toward his little bird. “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know! They’re both from Winterfell, of course they know each other, it’s only natural they’d be happy to see -- please, stop!”

“Get out of the way,” Sandor snarled, not wanting to get into a confrontation with one of the only people he considers a friend, yet not entirely unwilling to if she stands between a dog and his prey. 

By then, he was close enough that the little bird has noticed his angry approach. She was out of the boy’s arms and stared at him with an open mouth. Theon looked away from her finally, and when he met the Hound’s looming figure and scarred face awash in rage, his jaw set in a firm line and he reached for the sword at his waist. _Of course Asha let her baby brother keep his sword._

Then Asha was between them, axe raised and in a ready stance. That made Sandor pause. “I’ve only just got my brother back, and I swear Hound, you’ll have to kill me first if you try to touch him.” She eyed him warily for a moment, and Sandor was caught in a deadlock. 

“He’s my brother Sandor,” the little bird pleaded, and to his infuriation, raised her arms in front of Theon as if to defend him. The boy stood wide-eyed behind her, light brown hair shaggy around his face. Sandor growled at her obvious lie, and drew his sword. _As if she could stop me from removing his arrogant head from his shoulders this very moment._ Asha though...Asha could put up a fight. And when Sandor looked around, he noticed they had gathered quite an audience. Asha’s crew stood around, hands on blades, ready to act if it proved their captain was in trouble. Likewise, his men from _The Stranger_ were behind him. 

“Please Sandor,” Sansa begged, teary eyes meeting his own. “Please.”

_I promised I wouldn’t hurt her again. Bugger me._ He put down his sword.

 

* * *

 

**Sansa**

 

She couldn’t believe Theon was here. Just to make sure it wasn’t all a dream, Sansa ran her hands over his face again, his perfect boyish face that had taunted and teased her her whole life. He smiled under her fingers, and tears prick her eyes again. _I thought I would never see that dumb lopsided smile again._ “Can’t keep your hands off me, can you sweet sister?”

Laughing through tears, Sansa pulled her brother close again and he rested his chin atop her head, just like Robb would do. That brought on more tears. Yet joy was filling her up, a warm happy feeling Sansa believed she had forgotten. Theon was a a piece of home, right here in this new strange village where the women were just as intimidating as the men. 

One such woman was Asha, Theon’s long lost sister. After Sandor’s outburst, he had stalked away silently, leaving her with Theon and his strange new sister. Surprisingly kind, though rather crude, Asha took both of them to her home, which was built right into the hills. When Sansa first saw the home carved out of the grassy hill, she felt as though she were in one of her stories and this was where the fairies lived. Asha was anything but a fairy however. 

Apparently Asha had been slaughtering her way through Winterfell, an image that made Sansa sick to her stomach, when she came across Theon who had tried to kill her. Though she recognized him, Theon had only been a young boy when he washed up on the shores of Winterfell, and he knew nothing of having any other family, nor where he came from. Yet Asha claimed she would know her baby brother anywhere, and so she had her men drag him back to _Black Wind_ , where she proceeded to keep him tied up until he accepted who he was. Not a Stark, but a Greyjoy. 

The resemblance between the reunited siblings was striking, so Sansa did not have a hard time believing the tall tale. She was just happy he was here, alive and solid and breathing.

“I thought you dead, Theon. Do you know of the others? Father and Robb? Jon?” She was hesitant to ask, already feeling dread pool in her stomach at what his answer would be.

Theon shook his head. “Everything was aflame. I remember fighting along side Robb, and suddenly I was alone. I cannot say for sure. But I wouldn’t hold on to hope, if I were you.” 

Nodding, she said, “I understand. I’m glad you are here.”

“Tell me about the Hound then,” Theon implored. “How has he treated you? On _Black Wind_ Asha said he was a stern man, sometimes cruel.”

Sansa folded her hands in her lap and leaned back in her chair, trying to decide how to answer that question. Was he stern? Absolutely. Cruel? She was undecided. “Sandor -- I mean the Hound -- he has treated me better than I expected,” she confided. “Though I’m not sure if you could say he has been _kind.”_

Theon thought this over for a moment. “I’m sure it will get better with time.”

“Time?” she asked, brow furrowing. “Aren’t we...” she leaned closer and whispered, making sure Asha could not overhear from another part of the house. “Now that we have each other and we’re on dry land....well....aren’t we going to run?”

Her brother frowned and looked away from her. She didn’t understand his reaction. Surely out of all her brothers he would be the one with the daring plan, the glorious escape! Who cared if they lived or died, it was an adventure! Yet Theon did not share a treacherous escape route, rather he said, “I’m not leaving, Sansa.” He waited for an answer but when none came, he continued. “Asha is my true born sister. I...I belong here. I was never meant for Winterfell.”

A minute passed. The only sound Sansa could hear was the beating of her own heart as she stared blankly at Theon. “What are you talking about?”

Theon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Listen...I...Sansa I had fallen overboard and washed up on Winterfell, just like your father found me.”

“ _Our_ father,” she corrected, beginning to comprehend what he was saying.

He paused and shook his head slowly. “Your father, Sansa. Yours. I was born in this town, an Ironborn! Made for this life, for the ships for...the Vikings.” 

Betrayal rushed through Sansa, coloring her cheeks a fierce red. _How dare he, how dare he, how could he?!_ Angrily she stood, looking down at him, comfortably seated in his new _home_ where he _belonged._ Her throat began to sting, and her eyes felt heavy with unshed tears. She had shed happy tears for him only but an hour ago.“How could you say such a thing? I am your family! You belong with me!” She cried, jabbing a finger in his face. 

Theon stood as well, holding up his arms in surrender. She noticed for the first time his tunic, black with a golden kraken, the same sigil that was the _Black Wind’s_ flag. She shook her head blindly, trying to comprehend this betrayal. “Sansa please, try to understand. I’ve finally found my home.”

Anger and hurt made her hands shake. She clenched them into tight fists in an attempt to control herself. “Winterfell is your home! I am your home! Arya, Jon, Robb, Rickon, Bran, Mother and Father -- they are your home! How...how could you even,” tears began to fall and Sansa angrily brushed them away. “Traitor,” she hissed and was satisfied when he flinched. “You’re a turncloak, Theon Stark.

He tried to grab her hand but she shrugged him off, turning for the door, unsure where she was going, so long as it was away from here. “Sansa, you will learn to be happy here,” he called after her. “And then you will forgive me.”

She wanted to wound him, hurt him deeply as she walked out the door so she said the only thing she could think of: “Robb would be disgusted by you.” 

Sansa heard Asha entering the room as she left asking, “What was that all about?” But she didn’t stick around to hear his reply. Instead she left the house under the hill and slammed the door behind her, venturing into the foreign town with a setting sun alone.

 

* * *

 

The kindly woman with two boys clutching her skirts pointed Sansa toward a modest home a little ways off from the hustle of center Askrow. Sansa nodded and smiled at her helper, and began the slow trek up toward the wooden cabin. She was not sure where else she could go, except to Sandor. Her husband. At least he hadn’t betrayed her, at least he was honest. Her newfound anger toward her brother ran bone deep, and Sansa knew for certainty she could never forgive him. He chose their captors, the killers of their family, over herself! Unbidden, flashes of memories from her childhood danced across her eyes. She saw young Theon over and over again, playing with Robb, telling her she was the most beautiful princess, and he would save her from the dangerous beast (usually played by Arya). Yet he remained in Asha’s home, and let her leave, obviously not even thinking enough of her to come after her. 

She felt a pain she had not known since the day the Vikings landed. 

Though she kept a wary eye out for any who might try to accost her, everyone in the village seemed busy with their own endeavors. The town itself was surprisingly quaint, with a large market area in its center, worn dirt paths where emerald grass threatened to poke through, and young boys chasing each other to and fro, usually mock-fighting. 

Sansa was not sure what she had been expecting -- a dark and dreary castle maybe, where the evil king would hold his court and send forth the Vikings to do his bidding -- but Askrow was anything but unusual. In fact, the little town seemed remarkably similar to Winterfell, apart from the apparent lack of women. For every woman Sansa saw, there were at least five men. _Perhaps the boy soldier told it true._ Though she did not know for certain, it hurt her heart to think of many men coming home to find their wives dead from sickness. It hurt her even more to think that then those men went out and replaced them, stealing girls from neighboring villages. _I wonder if Sandor lost a wife._

For some reason, that thought made her stomach clench. But then she remembered his drunken words on the first night: _“Never had a wife before. But I think I’ll enjoy having something so sweet in my bed come night.”_

So she was his first. Sansa pondered this, as her feet carried her up and up the sloping hill, following a well-worn path. Perhaps that was why he was so crass with her -- he had never been in the close company of a woman! Surely he had sisters, or cousins, she thought. Sansa couldn’t imagine growing up a single child, without the constant love and irritation from her siblings. But maybe Sandor never knew such a family. _That would explain why he was so shocked when I mourned mine._

She felt sad then, for the man who had never had a family, and was now in the company of a wife who wished he had never found her. It was a strange thing, this pity for a man who was so intimidating, yet she could not will it away. 

Finally, Sansa reached the house, which looked very sturdy and well-made, obviously taken care of. The roof was grassy like Asha’s had been, and looked like it had simply sprung from the ground. Hesitantly, she raised her fist and knocked lightly. When there was no response, she knocked again. “Sandor?”

Movement was heard behind the door, until it swung open, and the doorframe was filled with her massive husband who had removed his armor and was instead in a rough-spun tunic and black breeches. At least he did not have to duck down to fit in the house, as he had for some areas on the ship. “Little bird,” he rasped, and she smiled at the familiarity. He stepped aside and ushered her in, closing the door and the cold behind her. The sun was beginning to set, so golden light streamed through the small windows of the house, causing the main room to be cast in a warm glow. Sansa took in her surroundings carefully. The house was very similar to Asha’s, with a fire pit in the center, surrounded by a short stone wall -- though Sandor’s was not lit. There were wooden benches around it, and a large table to the left. Off to the right she saw a door, supposedly leading to a bedroom? 

There were a few things in the room that obviously stood out from the rest: a ruby-incrusted sword which was hung on the back wall, a large chest in the corner, adorned with carvings and precious stones. Sansa knew these were stolen from villages, maybe even from Winterfell. 

She felt Sandor’s gaze on her, but pretended not to notice as she explored Sandor’s home. Opening the right door, she saw that it was indeed a bedroom, furnished with a large four-poster bed and many furs. She wondered if he had to make the bed himself, just to have something that could fit him. In the corner of the room, walled off partially by a divider, was the most lovely sight Sansa could ever remember seeing. A bathtub. It was gray stone, large and rounded, and Sansa leapt with joy, feeling every bit the dirt and sea salt all over her body. 

“Found that in a castle we took,” Sandor said, noticing her appreciation. “It’s bloody heavy, took three of my men to carry it.”

Sansa looked over her shoulder at him, forcing herself to look past his scars which scared her so and into his eyes. “Can I....?”

He smirked. “Yes little bird, I will bring water for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words :)


	7. Foolish

**Sandor**

****He had tried to stay out of his chambers while the little bird was bathing, by gods he tried. But every time he would hear a splash or hear her humming, all he could think of was the fact that she was utterly bare and soaking wet. He had tried to banish the image from his mind, to think of anything except the beautiful girl, _his wife for godsake,_ but Sandor still grew uncomfortably hard despite his efforts. Even when he attempted to call back his rage earlier at the stupid green boy who dared touch his bird, it was still not enough to distract him. Because, after all, Sansa was with him now, in his room not Theon’s, _naked._ Sandor waged a serious war with self control.

Until, and Sandor knew for certain the gods had heard his prayers at this point, the little bird called, “Sandor? Could you help me?”

All but leaping to his feet, he opened the door and stepped in to the bedroom, hoping fruitlessly that she needed help being fucked.

She had her back to him in the basin, and peaked over her shoulder shyly, obviously embarrassed. Her crimson hair was a darker shade now and though she was submerged almost entirely, he still had a perfect view of her bare shoulders, white as cream.

“Could you...could you help me wash my hair? My mother used to.”

He nodded slowly, and dragged the heavy chest from the foot of the bed to the back of the tub, so he could sit behind her. From this vantage point, he could clearly see the tips of her breasts teasing the edge of the soapy, bubble-filled water. Sandor remembered hazily the first night he had had her, when he had been so drunk to have thought her willing, and what her teats felt like in his hand. He stifled a frustrated groan and he felt himself straining through his breeches. 

This was going to be a difficult night.

 

* * *

 

 

**Sansa**

 

****Sandor’s hand were a wonderful distraction. Though he did not sing as her mother would have, the familiar feeling, yet so unfamiliar because it was _him,_ of fingers running through her hair was comforting. He massaged her scalp gently, relieving her of her headache brought on by Theon. _No...I mustn’t think of Theon._

She focused back on her husband’s hands and blushed furiously. What would her mother say? Here she was, naked as her name day, willingly allowing an angry beast to touch her. _I asked for him to touch me no less._ Frankly, Sansa felt herself a tad disappointed when he had left her to her thoughts in the bath. Surely the Viking she met on the first night aboard _The Stranger_ had wanted her...did he change his mind? And being left alone to ponder the soapy water had only brought on a fresh wave of sadness of her brother. _No longer my brother,_ Sansa corrected herself angrily. He was a traitor. So she called for her husband, and she could hear his footsteps practically run to meet her, assuaging her doubts that he no longer desired her.

And here they were. His hands deep in her hair, supporting her head as she closed her eyes peacefully. “Do you have a family, Sandor?” Sansa asked.

“No.” His answer was short, and since she could not see his face, she was not sure if he was angry. Thinking it best not to take the chance, Sansa decided to remain quiet. An awkward pause followed, until he cleared his throat and asked her in return: “What of your family, little bird?”

Glad for a topic of conversation that would distract her from the wonderful shivers being brought on by his attentions, Sansa said, “I have a large family. Robb is the oldest, and then my half-brother Jon. They’re both very brave and true.”

Sandor snorted at that, but Sansa continued, undeterred. “Then there’s me, and after me is my little sister Arya.”

“Ah yes, the wolf pup who waved a sword no thicker than a needle.”

Sansa laughed at that and explained, “That’s what she named it -- Needle. She’s wild. I always tried to do everything after my mother, but she was more interested in following after the boys. Once she even cut all of her hair off with shears. Mother was so very cross, but everyone else thought it was funny.” An unbidden smile graced her at the warm memory. “She always plays pranks on me too. One time, she cut my bedding and filled it with...with _dung!_ And I could not figure out where the smell was coming from for weeks! _”_

Sandor laughed heartily at this, his hands shaking. “So what did you do back?”

Sansa thought about this curiously. _Why did I never do anything back?_ “I...I guess I never thought to seek revenge. The idea never occurred to me.”

Her husband’s hands began to grow bolder, tracing her shoulder blades and the back of her neck, seemingly no longer content with her hair. Sansa was glad he could not see her face, for she could feel the blood pounding in her cheeks. With excitement and anxiousness, she recognized _that feeling,_ the one he had made her feel the first night she had spent with him. A warmth settled low in her belly, and her skin anticipated his touch. 

To distract herself she continued, “Then after me are Bran and Rickon. Bran was always entirely wiser than his years, and Rickon was even wilder than Arya when you got him riled up.” She laughed lightly. Wondering if Sandor would reciprocate now that she had told about her family, Sansa tried again: “You must have some family, Sandor.”

His reply was curt. “I don’t.”

Sansa tried not to feel disappointed when he withdrew his hands that were creeping along her sides. He returned to her hair, and when he spoke next it was with an unexpected bitterness. “You have not mentioned that gangly lad that recognized you today. You called him your brother too, if you remember.”

_Is he accusing me of lying?_ But she knew she would cry again if she thought of Theon, so instead she answered, “I do not wish to speak of him.”

“I _do_ wish to speak of him, girl.” Sandor clasped a heavy hand on her shoulder, causing her to jump in surprise. “Or were you just trying to protect the bastard, hm? Thinking that if I thought he to be your kin I would spare him, is that it?” Sansa recognized with a slight dread that her husband was becoming angry. “You told me you were a maiden, or was that a lie as well?”

Disregarding modesty in an attempt to calm Sandor before his rage became too mighty, Sansa turned toward the scarred man behind her and clasped his hands between her own. She flushed crimson when she saw his eyes flash toward her chest and cloud with desire. But she forced herself to speak nonetheless. “When Theon was six, my father found him on the shore of Winterfell. He said Theon was practically dead, having most likely survived a shipwreck. Now of course, we know that the ship that was wrecked was an Ironborn’s, and he was presumably with Asha.”

Once more, Sansa’s thoughts turned to a childhood with Theon, though this time recalling the memories was somewhat jovial. “My father took him in. I grew up thinking he was my true brother until I was ten. What a shock that was! But to me he never felt any different than Robb, or Jon. Theon was the best brother a sister could ask for. He could always make me laugh, and he taught me how to shoot a bow, though I was just dreadful. Arya was fairly good...” she mused, deep in thought. Sandor’s fingers hesitantly tracing her face brought her back to the present, and she blushed once more, dropping her gaze to the soapy water. 

Seeking to voice her frustrations, Sansa snipped, “Although it is apparent I was not as good a sister to him as I had thought, considering he chooses Asha’s company over mine. He does not even _know_ Asha. To look at him now you would think my family, _our_ family, did nothing for him.”

Her husband stared at her for a long time, seemingly trying to puzzle out some unknown conundrum. His dark hair was tied back from his face, revealing the terrible burns that looked painted on his one half, twisting flesh in a distorted pattern. Though both gray eyes were mostly untouched, Sandor had only one ear, the other completely burned away. For sure, the marks were no less terrible than the day Sansa saw them atop the Ice Keep. Yet she supposed she had grown somewhat used to them now. 

Carefully, she let her wet and soapy fingers drift over the scars, feeling the puckered skin beneath. _He is not so terrible, not truly._

Slowly, Sandor wrapped his hand around her own and drew it away from his face. “If the boy does not value you then he is a fool, little bird.”

“Perhaps I am the fool,” she countered. “For being content here, with you.”

Disbelief crossed his features briefly before he mastered it and narrowed his eyes. “It was but this morning you threatened to murder me, or have you forgotten that?”

Sansa blushed sheepishly, and drew her knees to chest, suddenly aware of her stark nakedness in the water. “I would never have done it. I was just scared.” She thought back on what she had expected of him when he had found out the truth of her terrible secret, the one that haunted her. 

He studied her once more, not even pretending to avert his gaze from her semi-covered front. “What were you scared of?”

“You,” she admitted in a huff. “You knew what...what I had done...that I had...” Though Sansa tried to force the words out of her mouth, they caught in her throat, thick and uncomfortable. 

“You killed a man that killed your kin.” Sandor said bluntly and Sansa flinched, turning her eyes to her pale knees and trying to control the rolling waves of guilt that accompanied that statement. “I killed my first man at twelve. Can’t even remember how many since then. But I have to admit, I am curious to how you went about it.”

She simply shook her head, unwilling, no _unable_ to discuss the most vile act she had ever committed so casually. It was as though he were asking her how she liked her meat prepared. How could he think of it like that? So black and white? _For gods sake I murdered the man!_

Sandor interpreted her silence differently. “So the little bird does not wish to share all of her secrets, eh? That is well. I have plenty of my own.” At that, his hands returned to her shoulders, warm against her goose-pimpled skin. They rubbed relaxing circles, up and down her spine, though Sansa felt anything but tranquil. His touch was stirring up a flurry of emotions and sensations within her, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on conversation. 

“And so here you are,” he rasped, “ _content._ ” 

“Foolish, isn’t it?” Sansa murmured, closing her eyes once more and relishing in the delightful tingles dancing along her back. 

“Yes,” he agreed. And then his hands were tickling around her ribs to the underside of her breasts, exploring the expanse of bare flesh. Her breath hitched in her throat as Sandor encircled her bone-white skin with his rough hands, rolling the flesh between his palms. Warmth pooled in her lower stomach, and Sansa was sure her face was as red as her hair, yet she did not ask him to stop. 

Unconsciously, she tipped her her head back, and felt her wet locks slid off of her shoulder, leaving her neck bare. She shuddered as she felt Sandor press his mouth almost gently to her collarbone, trailing kisses. Meanwhile, his hands, no longer satisfied with just her chest, dipped below the water to the juncture between her thighs, and Sansa stifled a gasp, opening her eyes wide. 

Absurdly, the first thought that crossed her mind when Sandor’s hand settled in her most personal place, was: _Septa Mordane never told me about this part._

Sansa gripped his arm as he touched her and brought her a sparking, overwhelming pleasure in ways she had never given thought to. She whimpered as he pushed a finger inside with one hand, the other returning to her chest, forming a cage around her torso with a strong arm. He nipped along her neck until he reached her ear and growled, “Let me have you, Sansa.”

 

* * *

 

**Sandor**

 

The girl trembled under his hands. Though there had been a nagging doubt in his mind previously that she had lied about being a maiden in the hopes that it would persuade him to be gentle, there was no doubt about that being the utmost truth. She shook like a leaf, so obviously innocent and unsure of how to react. If anything, it made the little bird all the more desirable. Sandor liked that he was the only man that had ever seen her like this, touched her this way. Sandor liked even more that when she blushed, the redness was not restrained to just her face. 

Her skin was cream, her hair fire. The only fire that ever enticed him. He could not find where he dropped his self-control, but it was long gone as she mewled and shivered for him. It was so _honest,_ so refreshing from the scripted reactions of whores and women seeking something from him. And hells, according to the little bird herself, she was _content_ with him, naked in a bathtub.

But Sandor was holding himself back from fully devouring her, from scooping her from the water and pinning her down on the bed and taking her right then and there. He just needed her acquisition, just one word to encourage his actions, just one _yes._

Yet Sansa’s response to his plea was less than encouraging. “I...I don’t...I’m not...” she stammered incoherently, nailing digging into his forearm as he intimately touched her.

Suddenly her responses took on a different meaning to Sandor. The trembling was not in pleasure, but in fear. The harsh grip on his arm was not to steady her, but to try to pull him off. _You saw what you wanted to see, you bastard._ Disgusted with himself, Sandor released his hold on her, pulling away as quickly as if she burned him.  

Startled, the little bird turned around to rest her too-large eyes on him, a question on her face. He was struggling to find the words to apologize when she asked softly, “Did I do something wrong?”

_Oh just bugger me._ Sandor rubbed his face, growling when he felt the burnt flesh that was so easily forgotten when he was with the beautiful girl that looked at his face. “I shouldn’t have touched you.”

Her expression twisted into one of confusion and underlining hurt. Pouting slightly, the little bird’s eyes dropped from his face and she wrung her hands in distress. “Am I not pleasing to you?”

That caused him to bark a laugh, throwing his head back at the ridiculous statement. _My cock straining in my breeches is testament enough to how bloody pleasing I find you._ When he focused back on his daft girl, it was clear she did not understand the jape she had made. Her eyes had grown heavy with wetness and her lower lip shook as she clenched her jaw. 

“Oh hells, little bird, I did not mean--”

“I want to be alone please, Sandor.” She said quietly, curling herself into a ball. 

“Little bird, you could never be--”

“I wish to dress now. If you could please allow me privacy.” Her dark red hair stuck wetly to her curled back, looking almost like blood as she turned her face away from him and sniffled. Angry and frustrated, Sandor rose to his feet and left the room, convinced that he would never be able to stop hurting his little bird. 

 

* * *

 

Sandor returned sometime later, when the moon was shining brightly in the night sky, and he had drank enough to fill _The Stranger_ and send a lesser man to his grave. He slammed the heavy door shut and barred it. Breathing in the woodsy scent of home, Sandor sighed in relief. As much as he loved the sea, there was something comforting in coming back here, to his own space. 

Though it was not just his home anymore, Sandor thought as he gently pushed open the door to the bedchamber, where the little bird was visible only as a lump beneath a pile of furs. It was chilly in the room, as the hearth remained unlit. The four poster bed was a massive monstrosity, and made his wife look a child curled in the middle of it. Slowly, he peeled off his clothing which smelled of drink until only his small clothes remained. 

Not wishing to wake her, Sandor eased himself onto one side on the soft bed and slipped between the blankets, shutting out the night’s chill. The little bird faced him, her fists tucked underneath her chin and her hair a wild, wavy tangle framing her heart-shaped face. Her mouth was open slightly, and Sandor resisted the urge to awaken her with kisses. He remembered quite well how terribly that had gone over earlier. 

So he settled for tracing her face once with his fingers, brushing away a stray lock of hair. “Sandor,” she breathed, and he was not quite sure if she was awake or not. “It’s cold.”

In response, Sandor moved closer and wrapped an arm around her middle -- the alcohol giving him courage to touch her again, however innocently. She hummed contently in response and tucked her head against his chest. Warmth inched through Sandor, though he was not entirely sure whether it was from the spiced wine or the girl he called his wife asleep in his arms. Perhaps a pleasant combination of the two. 

Before he allowed himself to fall into sweet oblivion, Sandor needed to expel the foolish notions that were in the little bird’s head. So he held her tightly and slurred, “You are the most pleasing creature I have ever met, little wife.”

 

 


	8. Adapting

**Sansa**

 

****“What do you mean you’re leaving?” Sansa exclaimed, clutching the blankets and furs to her chest as she watched her husband pull on thick boots.

 

Sandor sighed heavily, meeting her panic-stricken gaze with his calm one. “Little bird, I told you it will only be a few days. The village needs meat, and the men want to hunt.”

 

Trying to breathe deeply and remember her Septa’s teachings, Sansa realized she was on the verge of a full-fledged panic attack. Where was she supposed to go for company? For _food? Days, he would be gone?_ In the back of her mind, she hadalready considered the concept that Sandor was all that she had, and that was what had stayed her knife in the beginning. But coming face-to-face with the fact that her sole provider of everything in her life at the moment would be _leaving her_ was too much to handle. Especially when that’s what she had woken up to -- a cheerful _“Good morning, I’m leaving, but I’ll be back fairly soon.”_

 

Drawing herself up in the most ladylike manner she could manage with wild bed-head, Sansa commanded in her father’s voice, “Well that simply won’t do.”

 

Sandor glanced back at her with an eyebrow raised from across the room where he was gathering various items into a pack. “It won’t do?”

 

She drew her mouth into a taut line, trying her best to mimic her mother’s stern posture. “No! You cannot go. You cannot just...just abandon me here!” Accusingly, Sansa pointed a finger at the hulking man and tried desperately not to let her resolve waver at his formidable figure. “You...you _took me_ and curse you if you’re not going to take care of me!”

 

Then Sandor did the thing she feared the most: he laughed. In fact, it was not so much a laugh as a roar, with head thrown back and the booming mirth filling up the bedchamber. He looked at her with such amusement and delight, Sansa was shocked at how young it made him seem. The scars were not so prominent then, but rather his smile. “Look at the little bird now, feathers all ruffled! If I were a less clever man, it would seem to me that my wife will mourn my absence. Is that so, girl? You’ll miss me?”

 

Angrily, Sansa clenched her fist around on of the pillows and considered hurling it at him. She knew Arya would have. “You insolent man! What am I supposed to do? Stay holed up here until you come back? I’ve barely even seen the town! I don’t know anyone!”

 

_Don’t you realize you’re all I have?_

 

But Sandor only shook his head, as if her concerns were petty. “No one will hassle you. Besides, I’ve told Osha to look after you.”

 

_Oh wonderful, the delightful woman who convinced me to drink my weight in mead will be my protector._ “Look after me? Will I live with her then?” A dreadful thought struck her then: what if this was Sandor’s way of gently dismissing her? First it was a few nights at Osha’s, then a ‘why don’t you just stay there?’ and that would be that. Sansa would be alone, without a protector and without a future. Oh yes, the panic was coming on heavily now. 

 

Her breaths came in short bursts and there was a pressure on her chest. Her husband continued packing as she remained motionless, grasping the soft furs, staring blankly. _I’m going to faint._ When the Vikings had landed upon the shores of Winterfell she had kept control of her body just fine, why was this happening now? _I’m going to be alone. Alone. Alone._

 

“Are you alright?” Sandor’s voice lacked the amusement it had held before and he eyed her cautiously. However, Sansa could not seem to formulate an answer, dizzy as she was. Then he was beside her, hands against her face, his bewilderment clear. “Shh...little bird, shhh...it’s okay. Breathe, Sansa.”

 

Watching her shaky fingers with panic, she attempted a shuddering inhale. “You...are...leaving...me...why?” She managed to wheeze out and brought her hands to her chest, fruitlessly attempting to relieve the pain there. 

 

Gently, her husband pulled her onto his lap and rubbed her back, obviously unsure of his actions as the movements were more like awkward pats. But it helped to soothe her nonetheless, the woodsy smell of him tinged with faint wine was familiar and slowly Sansa began to pull in air more deeply. “I’m sorry, Sandor,” she murmured and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I’m sorry. Please...please...” Sansa wasn’t sure what exactly she was pleading for. Or apologizing for. It was unimaginable that she would actually be begging the brutish man to stay with her, yet the terror of being left behind in an unfamiliar town of _Vikings_ was even more terrible. 

 

With a voice full of confusion, Sandor muttered, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I told you I would come back, little bird. It’ll only be a few days. A weeks time, at most.”

 

_No, no, no!_ A week was far too many days to be left abandoned! So Sansa did the only thing she could think of to make him stay -- she kissed him. His surprise was almost a tangible object as she pressed her lips clumsily against his own, placing both hands on his face to keep him from moving. One side was soft, and then bristly with the stubble of his beard. The other was a mass of twisted knots of flesh, hard and puckered to the touch. He had always led the kisses before, and she wasn’t sure if she was doing it right. It certainly didn’t seem so, since he was as still as stone.

 

But before she could cover her face in mortification, Sandor responded. With a growl of approval, he removed Sansa from his lap and onto the bed, resting on his forearms above her. 

When his hand found its way to her thigh, tracing up higher and higher, she let a contented sigh slip through her lips. 

 

At the noise, her husband pulled back, his gray eyes seeming to calculate her. “Do you like me, little wife?”

 

She blushed then, red from head to toe. _Of course I don’t like you!_ Her mind told her to say. Yet her body was very much opposed to saying anything that would have him remove his hands. Instead of answering, Sansa pressed her mouth against his again and hoped that was a good enough reply. 

 

He indulged her for awhile, hands tracing over breasts and down to lower places.Sansa shivered with a feeling she could only describe as anticipation, all the while wondering anxiously if he would make her his wife in true now. Surely if he took her maiden’s gift he would not leave for the hunting party?

 

Yet her hopes were dashed when pulled away and muttered, “But by the gods, I will miss your sweetness.”

 

Sansa’s cheeks tinged with pink, half from his words and half from the frustration that she could not make him stay with her. 

 

“Don’t fret little bird, I will come back to your nest soon.”

 

She nodded silently, still somewhat embarrassed by the kiss, but recovering her clarity. _I should be thrilled. Arya would already be planning an escape, with or without Theon._ Yet all Sansa felt was anxiousness. Sandor was finally somewhat familiar to her, despite his crudeness. Now she would be thrown into a new mess of captors and strange faces, without her protector. His words echoed in her mind then: “ _You’ll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when I’m all that stands between you and the rest of my clan.”_

 

But he would no longer be there to stand between her and them. If only for a few days.

 

“Promise,” Sansa whispered and glanced up at the grey-eyed man. “Promise you’ll come back.”

 

He nodded his consent and ran a thumb along her cheek. “Stupid girl, if you think anyone would willingly give you up. I told you already you were stuck with me.” He took her face in his hands then and pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. 

 

Briefly, Sansa felt the sensation she had felt in the tub return, a fluttering feeling mixed with the incomprehensible desire for more. But he pulled back too soon, and left her with a slight smirk. 

 

 

As Sansa Stark, or Sansa _Clegane,_ she supposed now, stood with those remaining behind to see the hunting party off, she could not help the ache of desperation within her. 

 

* * *

 

Osha wasted no time in dragging her all through the village, pointing out various villagers and vendors. The Viking woman appeared aloof to Sansa’s obvious distress, and shuffled her through the town like a dog on a leash. Before long, children were trailing after them, curious at the newest red-head in their town. 

 

“What shall I do, Osha?” Sansa asked quietly, staying close to the woman’s side and ignoring the dirty palms of stray children which occasionally clutched at her. 

 

Osha raised an eyebrow. “Do?”

 

“Yes...what is my role? Where should I work? Or should I just manage the home?”

 

The Viking snorted at that. “They really did raise you nice and proper, eh? Managing the household...bah. You know, I was raised to expect the same. Until I was stolen as well.”

 

A sudden, overwhelming kinship struck Sansa then, and she grabbed Osha’s arm in a desire to be closer. For all appearances, Osha seemed as though she was born into this world with a battle-cry on her lips. To know that they had similar upbringings was mind-boggling to Sansa. “Really?” She asked as they walked. “How old were you? Are you still married to him? Was he cruel? Did you miss your family?”

 

Osha smiled crookedly at her eager questions. “I was five and ten. No, he’s dead. He was crueler than some, but more gentle than most, I suppose. And no, I didn’t miss my family. This lifestyle appealed to me much more than stitching and singing those knightly songs they teach you.”

 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Sansa continued, aware suddenly that her questions were very probing and very unfit for casual conversation. “Did you love your husband? The man that stole you?”

 

The wild woman led her inside another hill-home then, much larger than the others Sansa had seen, and her question went unanswered. Inside, the men and women who had remained behind were watching over a large cauldron of stew simmering over the large fire at the center of the room. A dozen separate conversations filled the room, and villagers were scattered around, some sitting, some standing, but all glowing with the light of the flickering fire. Metal glinted at almost every adult hip, whether it was a sword, dagger, or axe.

 

Osha led her to a wooden bench around the fire and then spooned Sansa a bowl of stew. She eagerly accepted, haven’t not eaten yet that morning. She had woken early, when Sandor left her bed, but assuming he would be back soon, she drifted back to sleep until late morning. 

 

“You won’t always get handouts like this, Red,” Osha warned her, handing her a spoon. “But as for now, Askrow is celebrating the return of the ships. And when the hunting party returns, we will feast further. Normally though, meals are taken in separate homes. Though,” she said laughing, “without a woman at home, the Hound more often than not found his way to my door for a proper meal. Bloody man can’t survive on his own.”

 

Sansa smiled lightly at that, and felt better as the brown stew warmed her chest. Osha sat next to her with her own bowl and together they observed the feasting around them. 

 

After a few moments of companionable silence, Sansa asked, “Could you tell me about Sandor?”

 

The Viking woman’s lips curled into an amused smile, her tousled brown hair falling to one side as she cocked her head at Sansa. “And what is it you’re wanting to know?”

Sansa shrugged, suddenly a bit embarrassed of her question. “I suppose just...anything you have to tell. Was he born here?”

 

“No, no. The Hound came to the clan, but he wasn’t stolen. He was actually one of the few boys that joined willingly.” She snorted at that. “But you can’t really be shocked that his choice, considering the mockery of a family he came from.”

 

This perked Sansa’s interest considerably. “What do you mean?”

 

Osha eyed her carefully, and returned to her stew before making her reply. “He should be the one to tell you. Real protective of that story, he is. Just understand that it takes a lot for a young boy to leave his home for the protection of _Vikings._ So if he seems...unable to understand you missing your own people, that’s why. He don’t got anything to compare it to, ya see.”

 

“Was his childhood so terrible?” Sansa asked, quite surprised by what Osha was implying. She couldn’t imagine growing up unloved, as she was always smothered by affection. Even her antics with her sister were rooted in fun and mischief, not cruelty. 

 

“Aye, Red. It was.”

 

She sensed that Osha wasn’t going to speak anymore on the subject of her husband’s past so she let it drop. The clatter of forks and spoons, chatter, hearty laughter, and a drunken song filled the large hall with a surprising warmth. It was much like being with the servants at Winterfell when they had reason to make merry. They were unrestricted by propriety, and thus appeared much more free. 

“So Red,” Osha began in between sips from her goblet. “How’s having the Hound in your bed?”

 

Sansa nearly choked on her stew, and coughed for good measure. _How could she ask something like that of me? Over dinner!_ “Pardon?”

 

“I said, how is the experience of having the Hound fuck you?”

 

_“Osha!”_ Sansa screeched, utterly mortified. She looked around swiftly to see if anyone else had heard her partner ask such an undignified question. Luckily, it seemed no one was in earshot.

 

“They say men like that are as hung as a horse. No need being shameful!” The vulgar woman laughed. “I bet many a woman would kill to be satisfied with that.”

 

Unable to form a proper response, Sansa merely said, “Osha please...these affairs should not be discussed over dinner!”

 

Her companion shook her head in amusement and clapped her on the back. “I’ll have the story from you soon, Red, don’t you worry.”

 

It was going to be a long week for Sansa. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love reading every supportive comment, you guys are an awesome community. Thanks for being there.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave thoughts...hoping to be inspired to continue. Hoping to be inspired to finish something I write for once in my life haha!


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